It is probably time to admit that for most of my life, I have been afraid of being alone at night and sleeping in the dark. I can dress it up however I want — say that I am just uncomfortable, that I prefer having people around — but that is not really it. I. Am. Afraid.

I even remember when it started. I was little — I don’t remember exactly how old — and the adults were watching A Nightmare on Elm Street in the living room. Freddy Krueger was there, in the dark. And I remember suddenly imagining: what if he were actually standing in the dark right now, here, for real? From that moment on, I started being afraid. Not of him specifically, but of something. Just… something. I began sleeping tightly wrapped in a blanket so that not even a hand or a foot would stick out.

I was especially scared to sleep at my grandmother’s house. It was a big wooden house in a village. First of all, there was an attic. And an attic is… well, an attic. We all know that if something is hiding in the dark, it is probably up there. Or under the bed, of course. And second, the house stood a bit apart from the others (or at least it felt that way back then). The fence seemed fragile, easy to climb over. I imagined how simple it would be for someone to get in, break into the house, and rob us. And it was just my grandmother and me there. Who would protect us? Good question. As you can probably guess, I didn’t sleep well.

Every morning, I would wake up, enjoy the daylight, and already start thinking about the evening, about how I was going to fall asleep without fear. And you know what? Sometimes it actually worked! I would spend the whole day trying to keep myself calm, focusing only on positive thoughts and pushing away anything that might scare me. And I was always so relieved that in summer (I used to spend two months there every summer) it stayed light late. It meant I could fall asleep before it got dark.

The next clear memory is when I started living alone. When night fell, I would always choose a spot in the apartment where I could see as much of the space as possible. It made me feel calmer, like I had things under control — like it wouldn’t appear.

What it? That is hard to explain. Not exactly a monster. More like a presence — something dark, undefined, and most frightening of all, unexpected. Maybe a shadow. Maybe something else. Just a concentrated feeling of the unknown.

I used to stay up late — studying, working, watching YouTube — anything to delay going to bed until I would fall asleep from exhaustion. And I was always so relieved to wake up!

It is way easier now, but the fear hasn’t completely disappeared. I have just learned to manage it. I mean… I am an adult, right?

I sleep with a small night light on — just in case, as if it could actually protect me. When we were choosing our current apartment, I walked in and immediately felt: I will be able to sleep here. The space made sense to me — fewer corners, more openness, nothing that felt hidden. And I have a dog now (though you should see her: she is tiny). Although, to be honest, it is not exactly reassuring when I am alone at night, and the dog suddenly starts growling.

I also fall asleep faster these days. I am usually so tired by the end of the day that I just pass out.

For a long time, I couldn’t admit this fear to myself. It felt ridiculous to be afraid of something like that as an adult. But then I realised I am not the only one. A lot of adults feel this way. And I was fortunate to know a few people who openly shared their own experiences.

Let's listen to them — what exactly they are afraid of, and how they have learned to live with it.

Editor, The Sandy Times

When my younger brother was born, I was about nine. I was moved to another room on the second floor, far away from everyone else — it felt like sleeping in a separate apartment.

I kept feeling like someone was walking around; I would hear noises. For a while, I asked my dad to stay with me at night, but eventually my parents stopped — after all, I was already “grown up.” So I had to sleep alone, which made it very scary.

Now I am 26, and I still have the same nightmare. In it, I am in that apartment, even though we haven’t lived there for a long time. Someone rings the doorbell. I go to the door, look through the peephole, and see a man with a distorted face — he seems mentally unstable, with a strange smile. Then I look at the keys in the lock and see that they are being turned from the outside. I hold the inner lock with my hand, and at that moment, I hear someone coming down from the second floor...

This is my scariest nightmare, and I still have it — especially when I am sick or overwhelmed.

When I grew up and started living alone, I would lock two doors. I also had a habit of checking the entire apartment — looking into every corner, behind the curtains — just to make sure. Even though I told myself it was silly, that no one was there, I still needed to convince myself that nothing could be happening in the apartment.

What exactly am I afraid of? First, that someone might break into my apartment, rob me, or worse. Second — something more like horror imagery. For example, someone standing in the corner, with red eyes, a black silhouette. And this fear is probably even stronger than the first one.

To calm myself down, I watch YouTube until late at night and fall asleep from exhaustion.

Artist

The music that soothes me is really tied to that feeling I had as a child.

At night, when the house became quiet, everything felt bigger than it was. I was around six, and the space almost swallowed me. It wasn’t just the dark that scared me; it was the silence, the lack of presence. When my parents were there, there was always music, voices, life. And suddenly, without that, the night felt heavy.

The silence, the space, my thoughts… my imagination would become very vivid, almost too present. It wasn’t something I could control; it just expanded in the absence of noise and movement.

During the day, I was already creating ways to deal with that. I would draw these simple, almost naïve characters, like imaginary friends, very instinctively, without thinking too much. And at night, even if I didn’t literally see them, they stayed with me. They became a kind of quiet presence, something reassuring I could hold onto. They were filling the space, giving it a shape.

To fall asleep, I wouldn’t really try to calm myself. It was more about getting through it. I would focus on the idea that morning would come eventually, like something inevitable. Almost like crossing a tunnel, you don’t stop inside it, you just keep going until you reach the other side.

I think what I needed wasn’t just comfort, but a form of stimulation, something to gently occupy my mind so it wouldn’t drift too far. Left alone, my imagination would take over, turning shadows into something else. Music helped me shift that. It gave me something to hold onto. It was like the beginning of a dream.

A melody could fill the room, make it feel less empty, less intimidating. It created a kind of continuity, something soft and reassuring that I could follow until I fell asleep. Even now, the music that calms me has that same quality. It is not too loud or overwhelming; it just sits there quietly and fills the space in the right way. It keeps me company.

Today, it feels like I have learned to navigate the night rather than escape it. But there is still a tension.

I have created small rituals. I write before sleeping, and I always have music on. Sound becomes a way to occupy the space, to avoid that feeling of emptiness. Silence is still something I find difficult.

I am also very sensitive to light. Sharp, angular shadows can immediately trigger discomfort; they create forms that feel almost too present, too defined. I try to soften everything, to make the space more organic, more fluid.

Presence helps a lot, too, being with someone, or even with animals. It brings warmth into that space.

What exactly am I afraid of? I think I am afraid of what the night reveals by removing structure. It creates a space where things are undefined, where imagination takes over, where absence becomes more visible.

It is not just fear; it is also fascination. The night is a place of projection, of illusion, of transformation.

That is exactly what my short film, Nuit Solaire, explores. I think of the night as a kind of long, dark tunnel, but also as an imaginary party. Something luminous and dazzling, yet deeply illusory.

In the film, I wanted to stage this tension by confronting two perceptions: the child and the adult. The child’s voice, singing a lullaby, carries something reassuring, almost protective. But at the same time, the images are saturated, acidic, unstable. There is a dissonance.

The adult voice interferes, disrupting that sense of safety. It introduces another layer, something heavier, more conscious.

Through symbolic objects, rhythm, and repetition, I tried to express that underlying fear: fear of darkness, of silence, of emptiness. But also the desire to fill it with light, with sound, with bodies, with presence.

I have always been curious why some people are afraid of being alone at home at night, while others aren’t — and what you can actually do about it. So I decided to ask a psychologist. I spoke with Daniil Makarov, a practising psychologist, to understand what is behind it and how to cope with it.

Daniil Makarov: There are several reasons why a person might be afraid of being alone or sleeping on their own.

One of them is the experience of loneliness. In one of the examples above, the person says the fear started after the birth of a younger sibling, when they were moved to a separate room.

This is what is often called the “dethronement trauma”: a sibling appears, and the child begins to question whether they still have a place. Their sense of basic safety is disrupted. And instead of restoring that sense of safety, the child is pushed even further away from their parents.

In this situation, the feeling of insecurity grows. A child cannot protect themselves, so anxiety increases. Over time, a kind of hysterical dynamic can develop: the symptom intensifies as a way to attract the parents’ attention. On an unconscious level, the child amplifies their anxiety in order to be noticed.

Imagination also plays a role. If an anxious child is left alone in an isolated space, the mind quickly begins to interpret every small noise, fixating on it. Reality starts to be filtered through anxiety, and something resembling a paranoid pattern can emerge.

As a person grows older, the symptom may persist. Living alone can reactivate that early emotional pain and reproduce the same fantasies. Part of the psyche becomes “stuck” in that childhood stage and continues to function in the same way.

So, yes, it can stem from childhood trauma, as in this case — a combination of loneliness, rejection, and loss of place within the family system.

It can also arise from real trauma — for example, if a person has experienced physical insecurity, such as a break-in or violence within the family. In such cases, a strong need for control develops. But in the dark, control disappears, which triggers anxiety.

The roots can go even deeper — as far back as the prenatal period, if the mother experienced intense stress or, for example, considered terminating the pregnancy. Darkness and enclosed spaces can reactivate these very early emotional experiences.

Another important factor is emotional abuse. For example, if a child was punished by being isolated or locked in a room. In such cases, darkness becomes directly associated with threat.

There is also an important symbolic layer: fear of the dark often represents fear of being alone. We all have a basic need for connection. When that need is frustrated, the psyche may intensify anxiety as a signal: I need someone to be here with me.

At a deeper level, there can also be a fear of one’s own unconscious. What is sometimes described as a kind of “existential” or “mystical” dread — a fear of encountering inner material filled with pain, suppressed emotions, and unresolved experiences.

It is also important to understand that any current stress tends to intensify these symptoms. Work pressure, relationship issues, or general overload can increase anxiety and make the reactions stronger.

So what can help?

First, it is important to create “safe spaces” — practices or environments that provide a sense of security. These can range from less helpful coping mechanisms (like endlessly watching YouTube) to more supportive ones, such as breathing exercises, yoga, or spending time in nature.

Second, gentle exposure can be useful. Gradually reconnecting darkness with a sense of safety — for example, spending time in dim lighting while feeling calm and grounded.

Third, in some cases, medical support may be needed. For more severe anxiety, consulting a psychiatrist is important.

And finally, the most important part is therapy. Working through trauma, addressing internalised fears, restoring a sense of place and safety, exploring recurring dreams, and integrating suppressed emotional material. In cases where symptoms are this persistent, professional support is strongly recommended.