ORPHYX

There was a time when waking at 2 AM wasn't insomnia. It was Tuesday.

For most of human history, sleep wasn't the eight-hour monolith we chase today. It was segmented: first sleep from dusk until midnight or one, then a period of quiet wakefulness, then second sleep until dawn. This wasn't dysfunction—it was design.

The night held space for things the day couldn't carry.

In the archive of what we've forgotten about being human, segmented sleep might be our most practical loss.

The lost hours between sleeps

Medieval texts speak casually of "first sleep" and "second sleep" as distinct territories. Court records mention crimes committed "after first sleep." Medical texts prescribed when to take medicines "during the watch." Prayer books included devotions specifically for the middle-of-the-night waking.

This wasn't the restless tossing of the sleep-deprived. Accounts describe a calm, meditative state—people would lie in bed, pray, reflect, have quiet conversations with bedmates, or tend to fires. Some would rise to check animals, write letters, or engage in what one historian delicately called "intimate relations."

The space between sleeps was liminal: not fully wakeful like day, not unconscious like sleep. Thoughts moved differently there. Problems that seemed intractable at dusk would rearrange themselves by dawn.

When we lost the rhythm

The consolidation of sleep into one block happened gradually, then suddenly. Oil lamps and candles extended the day, but electric light rewrote it entirely. By the early 1900s, segmented sleep had largely vanished from Western culture.

We gained productive evening hours. We lost something harder to name.

The shift wasn't just about light—it was about time itself becoming scarce. Industrial schedules demanded bodies ready to work at precise hours. Sleep became efficiency rather than restoration, a single block to be optimized rather than a natural rhythm to be honored.

Today's sleep anxiety might be, in part, a mismatch. When people wake at 2 AM and lie there worrying about not sleeping, they might be experiencing the ghost of an ancient pattern, but without the cultural framework to understand it as normal.

The biology of two sleeps

Modern sleep labs have recreated pre-industrial light conditions—14 hours of darkness from dusk to dawn—and something remarkable happens: participants naturally develop biphasic sleep within weeks.

Sleep typically follows this pattern:

• First sleep: 3-4 hours, ending around midnight to 1 AM
• Quiet wake: 1-3 hours of peaceful, meditative consciousness
• Second sleep: 3-4 hours until natural dawn

During the wakeful interlude, prolactin levels—associated with calm and satisfaction—rise significantly. Brain waves shift into a state between sleep and wake, similar to deep meditation. The body remains relaxed, but the mind is gently alert.

This isn't fragmented sleep. It's structured rest with two distinct phases, each serving different functions.

What the night watch offered

The between-sleep hours seem to have served purposes our consolidated sleep doesn't quite match:

Mental sorting: Problems and emotions that felt overwhelming before first sleep would often feel more manageable during the watch, and sometimes resolved by second sleep.

Creative processing: Many historical accounts describe insights, solutions, or creative ideas arising during these quiet hours. The mind, freed from day's urgencies but not yet fully unconscious, made different kinds of connections.

Spiritual reflection: Most religious traditions developed specific practices for middle-of-the-night waking—not as interruption, but as opportunity for deeper connection.

Social intimacy: Bed-sharing couples would often talk quietly during the watch—conversations that were more open and reflective than daytime exchanges.

Bodily awareness: Without artificial light, people became more attuned to natural rhythms, seasonal changes, and subtle physical signals.

The modern question

Should we return to segmented sleep? For most people living industrial schedules, probably not entirely. But understanding this pattern offers something valuable: permission.

Permission to see middle-of-the-night waking not as failure but as possibly natural. Permission to use those wakeful hours differently. Permission to question whether our one-block sleep ideal fits everyone's biology.

Some people are experimenting with modified biphasic patterns—napping strategically, or treating early-morning waking as potential rather than problem. Others simply feel less anxious knowing that their 3 AM consciousness might be an echo of something ancient rather than a sign of dysfunction.

Working with the rhythm

If you're curious about honoring segmented sleep tendencies:

Reframe night waking: Instead of forcing immediate return to sleep, allow 20-30 minutes of quiet rest. Read something calming, practice gentle breathing, or simply lie still and think.

Create wake-friendly conditions: Keep a small, warm light nearby. Have a notebook for thoughts. Make the space comfortable for lying awake without anxiety.

Experiment with timing: If you consistently wake after 3-4 hours, lean into it rather than fighting it. See what emerges during the quiet time.

Honor seasonal changes: Your sleep patterns might naturally shift with light exposure. Winter might call for longer sleep blocks; summer for more segmented patterns.

Trust the process: If you're getting 7-8 total hours of sleep but it's happening in two chunks, you might be working with your biology rather than against it.

Protect the space: The between-sleep hours worked because they were truly quiet—no urgent decisions, no bright screens, no day-mind activation.

The larger rhythm

Segmented sleep points to something beyond sleep itself: the value of in-between states. Modern life tends toward binaries—awake or asleep, working or resting, on or off. We've lost comfort with liminal spaces, with the productive middle ground between opposites.

The hours between first and second sleep were neither day nor night, neither conscious nor unconscious. They were their own country, with their own gifts.

Perhaps what we lost wasn't just a sleep pattern, but familiarity with transitional states in general—the patience to let thoughts settle, to move slowly between different modes of being, to honor the spaces between more defined experiences.

A quiet rebellion

You don't need to restructure your entire sleep schedule to reclaim something of this rhythm. You just need to stop treating middle-of-the-night waking as emergency.

The next time you wake in the dark hours, instead of immediately strategizing your return to sleep, try lying still and asking: What wants attention here? What thoughts are moving in this quiet space? What might this wakeful time be offering?

You might discover that the night still holds more than we remember.

The rhythm of two sleeps was never really about sleep. It was about making space for the kinds of consciousness that can only emerge in the deep quiet—when day's urgencies have dissolved but dawn's demands haven't yet begun.

In that space, something essential rearranges itself. Something that can't be scheduled or optimized, only welcomed.