There are plenty of people who believe night owls like me need to “fix” our sleep habits, as if those quiet, dark hours don’t count, or as if we’re missing out by "choosing" night over day. But I wonder, what if nighttime is actually when we’re closest to our true selves? What if there’s something uniquely powerful about the stillness, something that’s hard to see in the bright light of day?
For as long as I can remember, the hours after midnight have felt like a safe place. Those are the hours when I write, when I reflect, when I face the parts of myself that feel a little too raw to examine in daylight. Maybe it’s the stillness, or maybe it’s the way the world fades to the background, or perhaps it’s the lack of interference from others. There’s a freedom to be myself in those hours, without constant noise and expectations. I remember, when I was quite a young child, sneaking out of bed to read in the dim glow of a flashlight in a small walk-in closet, feeling like I was breaking some rule in the best way possible. The night felt like my own world, my time to be completely and fully myself.
Interestingly, this pull towards nighttime creativity might be rooted in something deeper than just a personal habit. This instinct to seek the quiet of night may also have roots in human history. During the hunter-gatherer period, nighttime was often the time for sharing, storytelling, and creativity. The Hadza in Tanzania, for example have been around for thousands, if not tens of thousands years and still spend their nights around the fire, telling stories, singing, and sharing knowledge. This wasn’t and isn't just a way to pass time but a way to build connections, strengthen social bonds, and preserve essential knowledge. In a way, the night is a sacred time—a space where people can be themselves, connect, and explore without the demands of daylight.
Even sleep patterns in these societies hint at a natural rhythm that included some nighttime wakefulness, when the world felt quiet and safe, a time just for thinking, bonding, or creating. Having that space to think and reflect at night may even have been an evolutionary advantage; those who could explore new ideas, solve problems, and find connection at night might have been better prepared for the day ahead. Maybe that rhythm is still alive in us, calling us to the quiet energy of nighttime.
And I’m not alone in this, either. There’s a long history of creative people who found their best ideas in the silence of night. Take Edgar Allan Poe or Virginia Woolf, both often wrote late into the night, finding their focus in the late hours. Some more notable names to mention are Franz Kafka, Stephen King, and Haruki Murakami. And it's not only writers who find their muse in the darkness; many other artists do too. Artists like Claude Debussy, Pablo Picasso, and Frida Kahlo.
For me, those nighttime hours release me from the need to perform, to conform, to fit into a schedule. There’s no pressure to answer anyone’s questions or explain myself; it’s just me, facing the thoughts I might push away at 2 p.m. but don’t want to ignore at 2 a.m. In fact, those are the hours when I can write the truest words, face the hardest questions, and bring my ideas to life without fear or censorship. It’s like the dark gives me permission to let go of perfection and just let the words flow as they are. By embracing these late-night hours, I’ve come to see them as essential, even slightly sacred. They’re an important part of my creative rhythm, and maybe even the reason my writing feels like home.
Of course, the nighttime isn’t a universal muse, it most definitely doesn’t work for everyone. Just as there are those of us who feel at our best in the quiet hours, others find their peak with the sunrise, when the world feels fresh and new. Creativity is a deeply personal and complex process, shaped by our unique rhythms, habits, and even genetics. Scientists studying circadian rhythms have found that people naturally fall into different chronotypes—biological preferences for being more alert in the morning, afternoon, or night. For many, morning light brings focus and a sense of clarity that nurtures creativity just as much as the calm of nighttime does for myself and others.
In honouring these natural rhythms, there’s no need to fit into a single mould. Instead, we might give ourselves permission to embrace the hours that feel most real and productive, whether it’s in the darkness of night or the brightness of morning. What’s important isn’t the time of day but the sense of connection to ourselves and the ideas that feel most like us.
So here is my opinion: I believe we should stop trying to “fix” ourselves to fit the conventional mould of daytime productivity. There’s nothing inherently wrong with the night, and we’re doing ourselves a disservice if we deny the magic that happens in the dark. Instead of being pressured to conform to a set schedule, maybe it’s about time we give ourselves permission to honour our natural rhythms. Whether that is morning, evening, or the dead of night. There’s something almost reverend about following the time scedule that feels most true to us. Like for me, honouring my night hours is a way of honouring myself, letting my creativity flow in the time that feels most authentic. So when we respect these natural patterns, we embrace the times that feel most real, most productive, most true, no matter what the world says.
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