Once upon a time, I could sleep anywhere. Sofa. Floor. Slightly upright on a bus. Those days are gone. These days I am a perimenopausal woman, which means I am tired in my soul yet somehow incapable of sleeping like a normal human being.
Sleep has become my white whale. My Roman Empire. The thing I think about constantly but cannot seem to have.
I go to bed exhausted. The good exhausted, the sort where you think, ah yes, tonight I will simply pass away into unconsciousness. Instead, I lie there wide awake, too hot, too cold, too sweaty, too itchy, mentally replaying something mildly embarrassing I said in 2009.
Perimenopause sleep is not just “a bad night”. It is a collection of exciting symptoms including night sweats, heart racing for no reason, anxiety popping up like an unwanted advert, and waking at 3am convinced it is morning, only to discover it is absolutely not and now you are angry.
The worst part is that sleep has become important. Important important. Not just “I’d quite like a nap” important, but “if I don’t sleep I will cry at a supermarket self-checkout” important.
I have tried everything.
No caffeine after lunch. No phone before bed. Herbal teas that taste like regret. Magnesium. Podcasts about nothing. White noise. Pink noise. Rain noise. Someone whispering facts about ancient Rome. Deep breathing exercises that make me think about breathing too much and panic.
Some of these help a bit. Routine helps. A dark room helps. Not scrolling helps, even though I do it anyway. Accepting that sleep is not something you can force helps slightly, although this is hard when you are furious and wide awake.
One thing I have learned is that what you sleep on suddenly matters far more than it ever did when you were younger and could fall asleep on a rolled-up hoodie.
If I am going to be awake for hours, I at least want to be comfortable while doing it.
A decent mattress is no longer a luxury, it is a survival tool. Something supportive enough that my back does not feel personally betrayed by morning, but comfortable enough that I am not constantly shifting like a haunted Victorian child.
This is where Simba comes in. Their mattresses are designed with actual science in mind, including temperature regulation, which is something my body has absolutely forgotten how to do. Anything that helps with overheating at night is worth its weight in gold, frankly.
If you are at the stage of life where sleep feels elusive, broken, or like something other people are having without you, it is worth investing in the basics. A good mattress. A good pillow. A sleep environment that feels calm rather than like a stress nest.
Will a mattress fix perimenopause? No. Will it stop your brain from reminding you of that awkward thing you said to the school mum six years ago? Also no.
But will it help you feel more comfortable, more supported, and slightly less cross when you are awake at 3am? Quite possibly. And at this stage of life, that counts as a win.
Now if you will excuse me, I am off to do my bedtime routine, which includes stretching, deep breathing, optimism, and lying perfectly still hoping sleep mistakes me for someone else.
Sweet dreams. Or at least… less bad ones.