Dreaming in Tandem: My Life as Her Sleeping Buddy and Emotional Punch Bag

Every night, as the world winds down and the lights go out, I find myself back in the same spot: next to my daughter, Olive. She’s seven, fiercely intelligent, stubbornly independent, and navigating life with ADHD and autism. Just like me—well, minus the autism. But that’s where things get interesting.

I call myself her sleeping buddy, but that’s putting it lightly. Some nights, I’m also her emotional punch bag, her midnight therapist, her human fidget toy, and—on rare peaceful occasions—her safe space. It’s a role I take on with love and a side of exhaustion because, honestly, no one else quite gets her dreams like I do.

When Two ADHD Minds Share a Pillow

 

Olive’s mind doesn’t rest. Even when she’s asleep, she’s moving—tossing, turning, muttering half-formed sentences that sound like fragments of a dream in fast-forward. It’s like watching her brain try to keep up with itself, even when it’s meant to be resting.

I get it. My dreams are the same—disjointed, vivid, and scrambled—like a film director too impulsive to finish one scene before cutting to the next. We dream in hyperdrive, both of us. But while my dreams are confusingly cinematic, hers are emotional hurricanes.

She cries out in her sleep sometimes. Short, sharp bursts of fear or frustration, and I lie there, listening, trying to figure out if she needs me or if this is just another passing storm. It’s hard being the emotional punch bag even when she’s asleep. But I know it’s not about me—it’s about her navigating a world that feels too loud, too bright, too much. Even in her dreams.

 

Her Safe Space, My Restless Nights

Certain nights, she clings to me as if I’m the only thing keeping her anchored. Tiny hands wrapped around me tightly, arms thrown over my shoulders as if holding on for dear life. I lie there, trapped but unwilling to move because I know what it feels like to be lost in your own mind, even while you sleep.

But then there are nights when I’m the enemy. She kicks, flails, and shoves me away, muttering words that don’t make sense. I’ve learned to roll with it, to let her fight whatever invisible monsters she’s facing. Because if she’s fighting me, then at least she’s not fighting alone.

It’s exhausting, but it’s also a privilege. I’m the one she reaches for, the one she trusts to be there when her world doesn’t make sense. It’s a responsibility I wouldn’t trade for anything, even when it feels like I’m breaking in two.

Dreams That Don’t Play by the Rules

I watch her face as she dreams, tiny expressions flickering across her features—confusion, fear, joy. It’s like watching her live a thousand lives in one night. Sometimes, she laughs in her sleep, this pure, unfiltered giggle that makes everything worth it. I wish I knew what she was dreaming about then. I wish I could climb into her mind and see the world through her eyes, just for a moment.

But that’s the thing about dreams—they don’t play by the rules. Not for her, not for me. They’re fragments of emotions, ideas, and experiences tangled together in ways that don’t make sense. Maybe that’s why we understand each other so well. We’re both just trying to make sense of worlds that don’t quite fit.

 

The Unseen Moments

They say the night is meant for rest, but for some, it’s when the hardest work begins. Some lie awake, hyper-aware of the little girl next to them who’s fighting battles even in her dreams. Some learn to function on broken sleep and midnight cuddles.

I’m her sleeping buddy. Her emotional punch bag. Her safe space. It’s the hardest, most beautiful role I’ve ever had. And even on the nights when she kicks me off the bed, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

For all the parents and carers who spend their nights calming restless minds, soothing whispered fears, and holding on when the world feels too big—how do you find rest when sleep doesn’t come easily?

What helps you through the nights that feel endless? Where do you find strength on the mornings that follow?

The Unspoken Connection

The love we share with our neurodiverse children isn’t always displayed in the usual ways. Sometimes, it’s not in the words they say, but in the silence, they trust us with. It’s not always in the hugs they give, but in the way they lean closer, needing us near.

It’s a love that’s felt deep down, even when it’s not spoken aloud. A connection that is seen in the way their eyes search for ours when they feel overwhelmed or the small smile that breaks through the chaos.

It’s an understanding beyond words, a bond that’s built in the quiet moments, the midnight cuddles, and the times when just being there is enough.

For all the challenges, it’s a love like no other. Unpredictable, unspoken, but always, always there.