Hello friends, I’m Monica, a graphic designer who once battled insomnia for three years. I used to believe that burning the midnight oil was just part of the job—until insomnia pushed me to my limit. It was in that struggle that I found a new purpose: the darkness I walked through could actually become light for others.

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Three years ago, I was a classic “workaholic.” Juggling client revisions and tight deadlines meant my days were packed. Late nights and coffee were my fuel, until my sleep collapsed. First, it took ages to fall asleep. Soon, I was lying awake all night, my mind racing with layouts and color palettes, anxiety growing about the next day’s work.

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I tried everything—melatonin, sleep sprays, white noise machines—but nothing helped. The lowest point came after nearly three sleepless days. In a fog, I mixed up a client’s brand colors and lost a major project. Staring at my reflection in the office, the dark circles staring back, I broke down. It wasn’t just about the project; it was the crushing helplessness of not being able to do something as basic as sleep.

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I felt lost and started to doubt myself: Am I the only one struggling like this? Desperate, I searched online for “designer insomnia.” To my relief, I found hundreds of comments from fellow designers sharing the same pain—the 3 AM revisions, the anxiety over client feedback, the fear of speaking up. I realized I wasn’t alone; this was our industry’s open secret. Right around that time, I had just joined the Amy’s Women Empowerment community. When I shared my story with the group, no one tried to lecture me or offer sweeping advice. Instead, they inspired me by saying that since I found my way through it, the things I learned along the way might help others going through the same process—so why not share them?

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I remembered what finally worked for me: cutting off screens an hour before bed, journaling with soft-colored pencils, and a flexible schedule tailored to a creative’s rhythm. What if I could share this through what I do best—design?

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My thinking began to shift. Design wasn’t just about clients and aesthetics anymore; it could be a vehicle for warmth and support. In my spare time, I created a gentle, low-saturation “Sleep Log,” simplifying it so it was easy to use, and shared it freely in designer forums. I even started a small sleep-support chat at work, where we’d nudge each other to log off at night and share tips for easing work anxiety.

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The response moved me deeply. A junior designer told me that after using the log, she’d finally started sleeping six hours a night. At that moment, I felt a new kind of worth. It wasn’t about landing the biggest client or creating the most award-winning design. It was about using my own hard-won lessons to make someone else’s path a little easier.

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Now, looking back, I see that period of insomnia as my darkest hour, yet also my greatest teacher. It redefined what design means to me. I still design, but now my work carries a quiet, hopeful whisper: a wish for everyone to find rest.