Maya stared at the ceiling for the third consecutive night, utterly knackered yet wired. She’d slept her prescribed eight hours, maintained her evening meditation, even invested in blackout curtains. Yet every morning brought the same crushing fatigue, the lingering anxiety that clung like morning fog.
Her therapist suggested examining her sleep hygiene, but Maya dismissed it—she had clean sheets and a decent mattress. What more could there be?
The revelation came during a weekend at her sister’s house. Wrapped in impossibly soft brushed microfibre sheets—engineered for perfect temperature regulation—nestled within a pristine white bedding set that seemed to radiate calm and order, Maya experienced something she’d forgotten: genuine rest.
