HIS ARMS

Recently, I have been unable to sleep. People usually struggle to sleep because they are stressed, going through a breakup, or stuck in a bad cycle. But I have been unable to sleep because of my pillow.

I have a complicated relationship with pillows. No matter how many I try—soft, firm, memory foam, orthopedic—none of them ever feel right. The perfect pillow should have just the right amount of fluff, the perfect shape, the kind that makes sleeping effortless. You know what I mean, right? A perfect pillow is a blessingggg, trust me.

I often wonder—why does sleep not come as easily as it did in childhood? What was so comforting about my childhood bed that I struggle to find now? And then it hits me. It was never the bed. It was never the pillow. It was him.As a kid, I never carried my pillow anywhere because I never needed to. My pillow was always there—steady, warm, and safe. Because my perfect pillow wasn’t made of cotton or foam. It was my dad’s arm.

I remember how he would lie still, not moving an inch, just so I could sleep peacefully. His arm never lost its shape, never shifted away, never needed fluffing or adjusting. It was my first, and probably my last, perfect pillow. No store-bought, five-star-rated pillow could ever come close.

Still don’t believe me? Just imagine —you’re five years old, exhausted after a long day of playing and laughing. It’s bedtime. You’ve just finished a few games with your dad, and like always, his arm stretches out. Without a word, you hug him, rest your head on his bicep, and drift off.

How could anything ever match that?

I realized that maybe I’m not really searching for a pillow to rest my head on—I’m searching for a pillow to rest my heart on.