Sleeping with a full head.
Seven days for the mind that won't switch off at night.
It's three in the morning and you're awake. Again. Your head is racing — yesterday's conversation, the unanswered email, money, health, all of it at once and all of it huge — and one tired certainty: tomorrow you'll be wrecked. And the harder you try, the more it switches on.
This course doesn't promise to switch off your head by force — you can't, and fighting it only turns it up. It's about understanding why the small hours lie, about giving up solving in the dark and learning to note down, getting the body out of the car, protecting the bed. A small practice each day, until the night becomes, little by little, a place where you rest.
The seven days.
- 01 The worst brain of the day. What happens at night isn't a flaw — it's biology. At three in the morning you think with the alarm on and the light off. Not the truth — the hour.
- 02 At night you don't solve, you note down. The most useful rule of the week. Your head tries to solve your life in the dark and can't; that's why it circles. Pen and paper by the bed: park it, don't solve it.
- 03 The bed is for sleeping. If everything happens in bed except sleep, your body learns to switch on the moment you lie down. A reflex trained by accident — and one you can retrain.
- 04 The body that never got out of the car. Sometimes it isn't the head: it's the body, left running. You can't sleep with the accelerator down. Breathing with a long out-breath is the brake.
- 05 The three-in-the-morning thoughts. Almost always three: the catastrophe, the courtroom and the unsolvable loop. Naming them takes you one step outside — and from there they stop giving orders.
- 06 The morning contradicts the night. What seemed like the end of the world at three has its real size at ten. The morning is right because it has the whole brain. Leaving a note for your small-hours self.
- 07 A plan for the next sleepless night. All of it together, in six steps you can use without thinking — because at three you don't think well. There will be more bad nights; now they won't catch you unarmed.
And an eighth email, a couple of days later: the close — all the essentials gathered on a single page you can keep to hand for the next small hours, because this isn't about one week, it's about a different relationship with the night.
How it works.
By email
One email a day for seven days, plus an eighth to close, two days later. Five minutes each. Each one announces the next.
Free, nothing to sell
There's no pitch inside. I don't offer you anything at the end. The course is the course, whole.
Leaving is one click
Any time. Your email isn't shared with anyone or used for anything but sending you these emails.
What each email is.
Not motivational pills or summaries. Each day is a complete piece, to read with a coffee, with the same shape:
A scene you'll recognize. The "yes, of course" you blurt while your body says otherwise. The extra drink you didn't want. The plan you said yes to just to avoid saying no.
The mechanism, explained. Why it comes out so automatically, where that reflex comes from, why the guilt that arrives after isn't what you think — no jargon.
"Today, one thing." One small, concrete practice each day: a yes to catch, a question to ask yourself, a small no to say, a guilt to hold. By the end of the week you won't have read about boundaries — you'll have started setting them.
What you need.
Paper and a pen — real paper, not your phone — and seven days. Nothing else. No videos to watch, no platform to log into, no homework piling up: one email a day, and what it leaves you thinking.
Start today.
Leave me your email and tomorrow the first day is in your inbox. You'll get one email to confirm — one click — and from there, seven days.
Free. Nothing to sell. Leaving is one click, whenever you want.
Prefer another path? The voice within — seven days to stop being your own worst judge — or The words of the building — seven days on the relationships that hurt.