Harding Owens

About Harding Owens

For years, I wore my fatigue like a adjustable base for sleep badge of honor. The perpetual dark circles, the constant yawns, the 3 PM slump that felt like wading through molasses—it was just part of my identity. My husband, Mark, was the same. We’d collapse into our king-sized bed each night, two ships passing out in a sea of worn-out cotton, only to wake up feeling just as battered and tired as when we’d started. Our mornings were a symphony of groans. His back was a constant, dull ache. My sinuses would pound the second my head hit the pillow, and my legs often felt restless. We’d tried everything—memory foam toppers, expensive pillows, blackout curtains that turned our room into a cave. We were chasing sleep, but it always felt just out of reach. We were surviving the night, not