Everyone who still sleeps with a fan on, know the effect! I always thought I couldn’t sleep without the low hum of my old silver desk fan blowing cool air across my face. My friends teased me about it all the time.
My coworker Maxton even joked that I’d marry a fan before a person. But last week, I read an article online that rattled me. It said sleeping with a fan could dry out your throat, cause allergies, and worsen asthma.
It made me wonder if that was why I always woke up with a scratchy voice. That night, I decided to sleep without the fan. I turned it off, slid under my covers, and lay there in complete silence.
At first, I thought I’d get used to it. But the quiet was unsettling. Every creak of the house felt amplified.
My mind drifted to things I’d pushed aside during the day: unpaid bills, my stalled freelance projects, the awkward dinner with my sister’s fiancé who kept checking his phone. I kept tossing and turning. By 2 AM, I gave up and flicked the fan back on.
The whirring instantly soothed me, but I couldn’t shake the unease from what I’d read. Was I hurting myself just for the sake of comfort? The next morning, I told my neighbor, Callista, about the article over coffee.
She laughed and said she’d never heard such nonsense. But her teenage son, Ewan, who overheard us, chimed in that his friend’s dad got bronchitis and blamed his nightly fan. It planted a seed of doubt that kept growing in my head.
That night, I tried sleeping with the fan aimed away from me. I thought maybe I could still hear the sound but avoid the direct air. But I woke up drenched in sweat around 4 AM.
The July heat felt relentless, and my bedsheets clung to me like damp towels. I snapped and pointed the fan straight at my face again, surrendering to the comfort I craved. A few days later, I went to lunch with my old college friend, Saira.
She mentioned she’d been seeing a sleep therapist for her insomnia. I admitted my worries about the fan, expecting her to scoff. But instead, she shared something that shocked me.
Her therapist said some people form sleep associations so strong they can’t rest without a specific sound or object—like my fan. But the real danger was relying on it so much that it masked deeper issues, like anxiety or unresolved stress. I tried to brush it off, but her words echoed in my head.
Was I hiding behind the fan’s hum instead of dealing with what was keeping me up? That night, I set up my phone to record myself sleeping. I wanted to see if I was snoring or coughing from the fan.
When I watched the video the next day, I didn’t hear coughing. But I did hear myself talking in my sleep. I kept mumbling phrases like “I’m sorry” and “please don’t go.” It was unsettling.
Who was I apologizing to? And why was I so desperate? I spent the whole day distracted.
At work, I missed a deadline and got a pointed email from my manager, Leontyne. During our video call, she asked if something was wrong. I almost lied but decided to tell her the truth: I hadn’t been sleeping well.
She surprised me by sharing that she’d struggled with insomnia for years after her divorce. It made me realize I wasn’t alone. That evening, I sat on my bed and tried to remember the last time I felt truly rested.
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