Last Tuesday, I was in bed by 9:17 PM.

Not because I was sick. Not because I was exhausted. Just because I wanted to be.

My phone was charging in the kitchen. The bedroom was dark except for a small lamp. I read eleven pages of a novel, turned off the light, and fell asleep before 10.

It felt like getting away with something.

When did sleep become embarrassing?

I used to brag about how little I slept. In college, pulling an all-nighter was a badge of honor. In my first job, leaving before 8 PM felt lazy. Sleep was for people who weren’t busy enough, driven enough, interesting enough.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead” wasn’t just a saying. It was basically my personality.

Then I hit my early thirties and everything hurt. My back. My eyes. My ability to function after two cups of coffee. I started needing naps but feeling guilty about them. Started craving early nights but forcing myself to stay up because that’s what adults do. Right?

Wrong. Very wrong.

The shift

It started by accident. One winter evening, around 8:45, I was on the couch watching something forgettable. My eyes kept closing. Instead of fighting it—grabbing my phone, making more tea, doing the scroll—I just… went to bed.

I woke up at 6 AM. Not to an alarm. Just woke up.

The house was quiet. I made coffee. Sat by the window. Had an entire hour to myself before the day started demanding things.

That was two years ago. Now early bedtimes are my favorite indulgence.

What “early” actually means

I don’t have a rigid rule. Some nights it’s 9 PM. Some nights it’s 10:30. It depends on the day, my energy, what I’m reading, whether the rain sounds good against the window.

The point isn’t a specific time. The point is listening to my body instead of ignoring it.

Tired at 8:47? Go to bed at 8:47. Not because you have to wake up early. Not because you earned it. Just because tired means tired.

This sounds obvious. It took me years to figure out.

What I gave up

Honestly? Not much.

I used to stay up late watching TV I didn’t care about. Scrolling feeds I wouldn’t remember. Snacking not because I was hungry but because I was awake and the kitchen was right there.

The hours between 9 PM and midnight weren’t adding to my life. They were just… happening. Background noise while I waited to be tired enough to sleep.

Now those hours are actual sleep. Deep, weird-dream, wake-up-feeling-human sleep.

What I gained

Mornings. I’m up before my alarm most days. There’s something luxurious about waking naturally, without the jolt. I have time to think. Time to ease into things.

Better moods. I used to blame my irritability on work, traffic, other people. Turns out I was just underslept for a decade. More rest, fewer snaps at people I love.

A clean break from screens. My phone lives in the kitchen after 9 PM. At first, this felt like punishment. Now it feels like freedom. The day ends. The phone stays behind. I don’t miss anything important.

Anticipation. I actually look forward to bedtime now. Clean sheets, a good book, nowhere to be. It’s the best part of a lot of days.

The social cost

Here’s the honest part: early bedtimes aren’t always convenient.

I’ve left parties at 9:30. Declined late dinners. Watched friends make plans for “after the show” while I calculated how early I could reasonably escape.

Some people think it’s funny. “Grandma hours,” they say. I laugh along. It used to embarrass me.

But here’s what I’ve noticed: most people wish they slept more. When I tell them I’m in bed by 9 most nights, the teasing usually turns into questions. “How do you do that?” “Don’t you feel like you’re missing out?”

I don’t. I used to, but I don’t anymore.

The secret

There’s no secret. You just go to bed earlier.

Don’t wait until you’re exhausted. Don’t finish the episode. Don’t do one more scroll through whatever app is holding you hostage.

When your body says it’s tired, believe it. Walk to the bedroom. Get under the covers. Let the day be done.

It sounds so simple. It kind of is.

It’s 9:22 as I write this. I think you know where I’m headed.