The Phoenix Diaries: The Chapter Where I Date Beds and Remember the One I Loved
On sleeping in other people's beds and what you don't realize you've given up until someone mentions their own.
Phoenix Diaries
Personal stories of transformation, heartbreak, and rebuilding from ground zero.
I’m in Bordeaux…again!
For the first time since I started this whole roaming life, friends came to visit. Three days of shared space. Shared meals. Someone else putting the kettle on without asking. Laughter that lands easily.
It settles in quickly. Feels like something I recognize in my body.
Home, for a minute.
Then we’re in the back of an Uber, heading to the train station. Suitcases in the trunk. That soft shift as the visit winds down.
They’re heading back to England. I’m staying on.
We pull up. Bags out. Hugs that linger.
And I say it, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“I bet you can’t wait to get back to your own bed.”
They laugh.
“Honestly, the bed was extremely comfortable.”
Fair enough.
I walk back through Bordeaux and the thought follows me home.
Your own bed.
I don’t have one.
Not a bed that’s mine. Not a room that holds the same shape every night. I move through beds the way people move through relationships. Some are easy. Some are confusing. Some feel like they have potential until something odd happens and you’re suddenly rethinking everything.
Some are short flings.
Some, you think, might be the one.
None of them are.
⸻
Lima.
We start strong. There’s chemistry. Light pours into the room. The bed and I are getting along.
Then one morning, the power goes out.
I turn on the tap and the lights come back on.
So now I’m in the bathroom, hand under running water, powering the entire apartment like I’ve entered a very niche relationship dynamic.
Tap on, lights on. Tap off, darkness.
We go through this a few times, hoping it will sort itself out.
It does not.
Maintenance arrives. There’s a full conversation happening in Spanish. I’m nodding with confidence and absolutely no understanding.
A few days later, it’s over. I pack up and move on.
⸻
Cusco.
Altitude hits like a personal insult.
Sleep becomes a suggestion my body occasionally considers and consistently rejects. I lie there staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’ve simply forgotten how oxygen works, or if this bed and I are just fundamentally incompatible at elevation.
We part ways without ceremony. Some things aren’t meant to be pursued above 3,400 metres.
⸻
Thailand.
A small room. A firm mattress. No nonsense.
Then I get sick.
Two full weeks. Where your body gives up on ambition and settles into survival. Every hour stretches. Every movement feels negotiated.
When you’re sick, you want your own bed. The one that already knows you. The one that doesn’t need explaining. The one that holds you without effort.
Instead, I’m lying in a borrowed space, trying to make peace with a mattress that has no emotional investment in my recovery.
We get through it. Barely.
⸻
Ottawa.
Flight diverted. Emergency hotel.
This bed has seen things. It offers very little in terms of support or encouragement. I lie there, trying to find a position that feels like sleep rather than a mild form of punishment.
We part ways in the morning with mutual relief.
⸻
San Francisco.
Stranded because of the Air Canada strike.
And suddenly, I meet a bed that understands me on a deeper level.
Soft. Luxurious. Generous.
I get in and exhale like I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life. This is a bed that listens. I consider cancelling everything. Staying indefinitely. Building a future together.
It’s a strong connection, but we have to say goodbye. Until next time.
⸻
Ibiza.
Now this one has personality.
The walls are thin enough that I become deeply familiar with the man next door and his very committed relationship with snoring. It’s not casual. It’s a full performance. There’s rhythm. There’s intensity. At one point, I’m fairly certain he’s doing intervals.
I lie there, wide awake, thinking, this is now a group situation.
Then the storm rolls in.
Rain comes in sideways. The bathroom ceiling starts leaking. At first, it’s a drip. Then it gains confidence.
I’m brushing my teeth, watching water gather, thinking this feels like something that should concern me more than it currently does.
No one arrives. The ceiling continues its journey. We carry on.
⸻
Normandy.
A château.
And suddenly, everything makes sense.
This is not a bed. This is a declaration.
A room so large I lose track of my own belongings. A king-sized bed stretched out like it’s been expecting me. Windows everywhere. Light pouring in. A bathroom with both a bath and a shower, which feels like unnecessary luxury, yet I fully support it.
I take a bath like I’ve earned it. I sleep like I belong there.
Lady Fraser has arrived. Honestly, it suits me.
⸻
Bordeaux.
We’re back to reality.
I sit on the couch and can reach the fridge with my foot. Efficiency at its finest.
The bed is in a loft. A low loft.
Every morning, I wake up optimistic. Every morning, I stand up and immediately regret my choices. The ceiling and I are in ongoing negotiations.
Upstairs, the neighbour begins the day by moving what I can only assume are either heavy furniture or dead bodies in cement blocks. There are thuds. Dragging. Determination. I’m very suspicious.
I lie there listening, thinking, I trust they have a system. I choose not to be involved.
⸻
There have been air mattresses. Spare rooms. Couches that looked inviting until you spent a night on them and realized they had no intention of following through.
And somewhere in all of it, tucked between the château and the ceiling that leaked, I’ve started to understand what I gave up without fully reckoning with it.
My own room. A door that closed on the same space every night. A bed that held me in a way that didn’t require introduction.
It was mine. That was the whole thing, really. It was just mine.
⸻
Now every room is an introduction.
I arrive. I learn it quickly. Where the light falls. What do the sounds mean? How the bed will hold me.
I settle. I sleep. I leave.
⸻
That moment outside the train station stays with me.
Your own bed. Such a simple thing to say. Such a loaded one to not have.
⸻
One day I’ll have one again. A bed that doesn’t belong to a booking confirmation. A room that stays put. A space that holds me without needing to be told how.
For now, I keep moving. Dating beds across continents. Some memorable. Some questionable. Some that nearly convince me to stay.
And every night, I climb in, wherever I am and trust that this one, at least for tonight, will hold me.
Tell me…
Do you have a bed that feels like home, or are you, like me, currently in a complicated relationship with sleep?
Great piece, what a fun journey. It made me smile. I have a bed I love, and I have realized how much I need that return to my own space, my bed, my things. I will gladly drive an hour home instead of staying over somewhere else.