The house is still. Everyone else is asleep. And you—heart racing, future spinning, to-do list screaming—are wide awake. Ada Calhoun’s Why We Can’t Sleep opens in this silent storm, capturing the exhaustion tucked beneath the polished surfaces of women who were told they could have it all… and then were crushed under the weight of the promise.
This book isn’t just about insomnia—it’s about a generation of women who came of age believing success was a guarantee if they worked hard enough, loved well enough, performed endlessly enough. Instead, they found themselves in midlife juggling debt, aging parents, complicated marriages, stalled dreams, hormonal chaos, and an invisible crisis that rarely makes headlines: the internal collapse happening behind carefully managed smiles.
Calhoun’s storytelling feels like sitting in the dark with someone who finally says what you’ve been afraid to admit. These seven lessons drawn from her work explore the haunting complexities of modern womanhood—where ambition and anxiety collide, where identity frays under the pressure of being everything to everyone, and where sleeplessness becomes a silent rebellion of a mind pushed past its limits.
1. The pressure to “have it all” becomes the punishment.
The women Calhoun interviewed were raised during the era of limitless possibility—told they could be CEOs, perfect mothers, thriving partners, ageless beauties. But each expectation came stacked on another until success became an impossible balancing act. The sleepless nights come from meeting a thousand demands and feeling like a failure at all of them. Not because they’re incapable—but because “all” keeps expanding while time never does.
2. Perfectionism is the thief of rest.
This generation learned early that their value was measured by achievement. Straight A’s, tidy homes, perfect parenting, flawless professionalism—rest then starts to feel like laziness, pleasure like guilt. At night, the brain sifts through everything imperfect, unfinished, unworthy. The mind attacks what the world already pressures. No wonder sleep refuses to come.
3. Money is a quiet monster in the dark.
Student loans that never disappear. Housing crises. The cost of raising children. Caring for parents while still trying to secure your own future. Financial precarity is a constant hum beneath the surface, getting louder as the world sleeps. Anxiety is expensive. And insomnia, in its own way, is interest accrued on worry.
4. Aging isn’t the enemy—but silence about it is.
Between hormonal shifts and the emotional weight of midlife responsibilities, women’s health becomes a battlefield often ignored. Insomnia becomes a symptom of change—but everyone pretends they’re fine. Calhoun breaks that silence, showing that the body’s evolution isn’t a failure—it’s a call for compassion, not shame.
5. Comparison keeps us awake more than caffeine ever could.
Scrolling through curated lives—friends with bigger houses, happier marriages, faster promotions—turns insecurity into insomnia. The quiet hours amplify what daylight distractions suppress. Women lie awake wondering why everyone else seems to be thriving while they’re treading water. The truth is: most are paddling desperately beneath the surface too.
6. Identity doesn’t stabilize with age—it shifts.
Just when society expected these women to “have it figured out,” everything changed—careers plateaued, kids grew up, marriages transformed, dreams deferred. The question, Who am I now? keeps echoing at 3 AM. Reinvention is exciting—but terrifying when you feel like you should have already arrived.
7. Connection is the antidote to the loneliest hours.
Perhaps the deepest insight in Calhoun’s work: sleeplessness feels isolating, but the struggle is universal. Women think they’re alone in their anxiety, their exhaustion, their disappointment. Until someone finally says, Me too. In that moment, the night feels less dark. Not because the problems are solved—but because the burden is shared.
Why We Can’t Sleep is more than a diagnosis—it’s a mirror reflecting the anxiety woven into modern womanhood. Ada Calhoun gives language to the ache of midlife, the nights spent wrestling with invisible expectations, the exhaustion of performing resilience even when breaking. And yet, within every story she records, there flickers a resilient truth: you are not alone in your sleeplessness, not wrong for struggling, not weak for feeling overwhelmed. Sometimes the most radical act is to name the weight you carry and allow others to sit beside you in the dark—until morning comes, and hope, however fragile, opens its eyes again.
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