When I was little, I stayed at my babysitter’s trailer. Around 3AM I woke up to pee and looked down the hallway.

My babysitter was leaning against the wall like a “cool guy” in a movie. I made an eye contact,

and my blood ran cold, because she was…standing perfectly still, eyes closed,

and not responding. At that age, I didn’t understand sleepwalking, and all I felt was fear.

Her posture looked unnatural, like she was waiting for something invisible.

I whispered her name, but she didn’t move. The silence in the hallway felt heavier than the night outside,

and my heart raced as I tip-toed to the bathroom, hoping she wouldn’t suddenly open her eyes.

When I came out, she was still standing there, but now she was murmuring softly,

like she was having a conversation with someone only she could see.

The moonlight from a small window lit just enough of her face for me to notice she looked sad, not scary,

almost like she was lost somewhere far away. That tiny detail softened my fear a little,

and instead of running, I quietly returned to the couch and pulled the blanket over my head.

The next morning at breakfast, everything felt normal again.

My babysitter hummed while making pancakes, cheerful as always.

I asked—very carefully—if she had been awake during the night.

She paused, then smiled gently. “Sometimes people carry worries into their dreams,” she said.

“But they don’t last forever.” At the time, I didn’t understand what she meant. I just nodded, relieved she was herself again.

Years later, as an adult, I realized she wasn’t frightening—she was exhausted and overwhelmed,

quietly dealing with her own challenges. That night taught me something valuable: sometimes what we fear isn’t danger,

but a glimpse of someone else’s silent struggle. And it reminded me that kindness,

even toward things we don’t understand, often reveals a truth much gentler than our imagination first paints.