In the daytime, I like to think that I’m a relatively nice person. Or, you know, at least normal. Smiling at people. Asking questions like “How’s your day been?” Opening the door if I’m the first to get there—that sort of thing. However, something happens at night—something I can’t explain. I become evil. I become the sort of person who won’t tolerate even the tiniest of movements in my vicinity. I don’t like people breathing too loudly. I don’t like pinpricks of light from, like, a window across the street. I once woke up at night because someone sent me a text (my phone was on silent). I am a light sleeper, yes, but it’s more than that. I am nocturnally deranged.
When my partner and I first got together, none of the above really mattered. We were in our early 20s, and would stay up until 2 a.m. smoking and playing records until we passed out. I’d go to work on four hours of sleep and that was, somehow, fine. You can sleep when you’re dead, I thought to myself, my eyes like sunken holes. And then, I guess, I got older, and I wanted to sleep properly, and I wanted to experience the day with bright, awake eyes. But it also meant that I became a sort of night freak, getting irate at the smallest of sounds or slight motions. My anxiety would feed my poor partner’s anxiety until we were in a feedback loop of panic—and obviously no one slept.
And then, last year, we tried something different. If we couldn’t sleep, one of us would sleep in the other room, especially on nights when my partner was working late. The idea of it felt a bit depressing (“They sleep in separate beds” is the sort of thing people say in hushed tones to infer impending marital collapse.) But really, it was a revelation. Even introducing the possibility of sleeping separately made it easier for us to fall asleep together. Now, we had a backup plan to fall on that didn’t involve mainlining Nytol or me transforming, werewolf-like, into Night Freak and saying things like “Please can you go to sleep now??” in a clipped voice, as if that would realistically help.
I’d assumed that this particular issue and solution was relatively rare, but, it turns out, it’s not. It’s even been given an internet-y term, “sleep divorce,” and apparently all the tired couples are getting one. One 2023 study found that 24% of married millennials sleep in separate beds on occasion, with 19% sleeping in separate beds consistently. According to Hilton’s 2025 Trends report, 63% of travelers reported sleeping better when alone, with 37% sleeping in separate beds when on holiday. Essentially, it’s not that weird to sleep apart anymore. And as sleep scientist and psychologist Wendy Troxel points out, it should really be called a “sleep alliance,” considering it’s a solution to a common problem.
And the problem is common, and it does have a ripple effect. One study from Ohio State University found that couples who aren’t getting enough sleep are more likely to become hostile towards one another. Another 2021 study found that sleep deprivation increased levels of cortisol during interpersonal conflict. In other words, not being able to sleep is making us grouchier and harder to be with (I don’t need a study to confirm this). So it stands to reason that a sleep divorce is probably going to save you from getting the real thing.
The thing is, despite everything I just said, I do actually like sharing a bed—or at least the fun parts of it. I like waking up with my face smushed against my partner’s back, or waiting until one of her eyes opens at the weekend. I like seeing her in a half-asleep state, like a baby chick that’s just cracked its way out of an egg. There’s an intimacy to sharing a bed that can’t be replicated elsewhere, and it feels like a shame to not have that every single day. But what’s even more of a shame is me being a more evil version of myself. And if occasionally sleeping in separate beds can prevent me from turning into Night Freak, then that’s exactly what we’ll do.