It’s now or never.
That’s what I told myself as I prepared for my first all-nighter.
I was 17 years old, and I’d just spent a month in a college prep summer program on the west coast. I’d connected with new friends, made new memories, and just generally had a time of it.
But now, it was the last night of the adventure. When the sun rose again, everyone would return to their homes in different corners of the globe. We would never all be in the same place again.
Mindful of this, the leaders of the program lifted the nightly curfew. And we took full advantage of that freedom.
Reminiscing at 11 PM. Karaoke at 2 AM. Delirious laughter at 5 AM. It all happened.
We cursed the dawn when it arrived. And we started saying our solemn goodbyes.
As my shuttle headed away from the college campus, I was stone faced and composed. But once I arrived and the airport, reality set in. Surrounded by strangers, my eyes started to well with tears.
I reminded myself that an airport was no place for a breakdown. So, I pulled myself together — making it through the security line, through the concourse, and onto the plane.
As it took off, and I watched the West Coast disappear out of the tiny double-paned window.
And then I fell into a deep slumber.
When I woke up, the plane was over Detroit. Day had turned to night, and we were an hour from landing on the East Coast.
I knew that my parents would be waiting at the airport once I arrived. I knew they’d be excited to see me after a month away. And I knew that I needed to match that excitement.
So, I spent the remainder of my flight preparing myself for that moment. And I did indeed manage to stay upbeat at the moment of reunification.
But once my parents started asking me to share details from the program, I lost it. Sobbing uncontrollably, I felt the urge to apologize for my behavior.
My parents deflected my pleas.
How much have you slept recently? they asked.
I confessed that I’d been awake for 34 of the prior 38 hours. And my parents told me to head up to bed.
The stories of the prior month could wait. I needed to recharge.
As dawn’s light entered my childhood bedroom, I found myself cheerier — and wiser.
For the first time, I recognized that the energy at my disposal was not infinite. And I resolved to be more judicious with how I used it.
Well, sort of.
As I moved on to my senior year of high school — and then college — I generally steered clear of all-nighters. But I did tend to stay up late and wake up somewhat early, relying on caffeine to pull me through.
I had one speed, and I gave myself full license to use it. As long as my energy reserves didn’t go into the red, I’d be alright. At least that’s what I told myself.
But as I got older, I could feel things start to shift.
My body was requiring more sleep. And continuously going all out no longer seemed possible.
So, I made some changes. I got rid of those late nights. And I moderated my effort levels throughout the day.
Those adaptations proved prescient for many years. But recently, their shine has started to fade.
These days, it’s not just how much energy I spend that matters. It’s what I spend it on.
Early in adulthood, I ran into some financial challenges.
I’d lived paycheck to paycheck in my first career. And when I switched careers, I found myself unemployed for three months. As I powered through job applications and showed up for fruitless interviews, what little savings I had to my name disappeared.
Eventually, I did land a job with a steady income. I got a new apartment and moved my furnishings out of storage.
But ridding myself of the credit card debt I’d accumulated in prior months proved trickier. So, I met with a financial advisor to strategize.
The advisor reacquainted me with some advanced budgeting techniques, which I followed to a T. And soon enough, my house was back in order.
The lessons from that experience remain ingrained. Every now and then, I might incur a charge or two beyond my means. But when I do, I moderate my spending until I can balance the books. It’s just the way my brain works now.
And in the past few years, such budgeting habits have started to extend beyond dollars and cents. Now, I’m mindful of which daily activities I should devote energy to and which ones I should defer to other forces.
For instance, where I was once militant about reducing my thermostat usage, I now tend to keep the heat or air conditioning running continuously. I recognize that the mental calculus of toggling the on-off switch was taking too much of my daily attention. And I understand that preserving mental energy is more precious to me than saving a few dollars on an electric bill.
So, it goes for other aspects of my life as well. I divvy my focus wisely, no longer striving to control the most granular details of anything in my midst. Adherence to routines, healthy habits, and technological assists tend to make this shift easier.
But every now and then, the system breaks down. Something that should just work no longer does, and I find myself diving into troubleshooting.
Perhaps my SUV ends up in the shop for a few days longer than anticipated, forcing me to get creative with transportation and meal planning. Maybe one of the appliances in my home malfunctions, forcing me to alter my dishwashing or laundry routine. Or one of the many computerized systems I use has an outage, forcing me to handle processes manually.
Such occurrences are more than annoyances for me. They carry collateral damage.
Indeed, the energy I need to divert toward workarounds is diverted from other portions of my daily life. I’m left with reduced capacity to think deeply, to function professionally, and to stay connected socially. And what little energy I have left over for these critical endeavors is depleted far earlier in the day than usual.
There’s little I can do to fix these situations. I can’t just generate more energy to power through, the way I once did. And I can’t abandon my daily responsibilities.
With that in mind, I do my best to minimize the blow. I prepare myself as best I can for adverse outcomes before they strike. I put intention into my pivoting strategy, so that I don’t lose steam while changing course. And I treat my energy budget as a central force underpinning it all.
It’s far from a perfect solution. But it works.
It works for me. And it will likely work for anyone else in a similar conundrum.
So, if you find yourself flustered and exhausted by the frustration, consider the energy budget approach. Accept limitations. Shift habits. Build resilience.
It might not be a perfect salve. But you’ll be better positioned to reap the benefits.