My husband and I have been happily married for 19 years, and we have never slept together. Let me answer your questions upfront: no, we are not celibate, and yes, I suspect you don't fully believe me.
I understand your suspicion. The marital bed is deeply embedded in culture as a symbol of a healthy relationship. Sleeping separately—and going even further by having separate rooms if you have the space—is clearly a sign that the relationship is on rocky ground, or at the very least, you have had an explosive argument and one of you chooses or is ordered to sleep on the sofa, right?
But there was a time when sleeping in separate beds was all the rage. From the early 1900s through the 1950s, twin beds were seen as healthier and more modern. You would avoid your bed partner's germ-filled breath while also retaining some independence. By the 1960s, that notion was completely abandoned. Sleeping together became the norm and a sign of marital stability—for the middle class, anyway.
The upper classes have largely ignored these cultural dictates. The Crown showed Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip sleeping in separate, adjoining bedrooms, and King Charles and Queen Camilla are carrying on the royal tradition. Their reasons are practical: it makes sense when one wants a good night's sleep, and when intimacy is desired, that is easily arranged with a rendezvous.
For middle-class me, however, sleeping separately was a matter of survival. Before we were married, I tried sleeping through the night in the same bed we had had sex in—generally mine. I got through most of those nights without needing to decamp to the sofa, but even then, I found the whole undertaking stressful. It was not just the snoring—full-throated and cavernous, startling me out of my blissful slumber—but the actual presence of someone sleeping beside me. I felt something being taken, something I did not want to lose.
We met when we were in our early 40s, both coming out of difficult marriages. In the wreckage of those unfortunate couplings, we wondered whether we would have enough trust to open our hearts again. We were grateful and surprised to be falling so deeply in love. Our times together were relaxed, our conversations open. I met him emotionally bruised, and when he held me close, I felt accepted and safe. Except when I wanted to sleep.
The noise, the thrashing and moving around, the cover-stealing, the mismatched bathroom schedules that only worsened with time—I could not relax enough to fall asleep, and if I did, it was short-lived. It was all bearable until he moved in. I was thrilled when he agreed that packing up every Sunday night to leave for home about 30 minutes south—actually his parents' home, where he was living post-divorce and pre-affordable apartment—made little sense. We did not want to say goodbye, and my house had plenty of room for the two of us and my 5-year-old. But I was nervous. Not about whether we would make a good team, but if I would ever enjoy the benefits of a good night's sleep again.
We did—and I did not. I tried timing my bedtime ahead of his so that I would be solidly asleep before he crept in next to me. I took sleep aids. I meditated. None of it was a match for the snoring, and the drugs only succeeded in leaving me groggy. The day I nearly fell asleep behind the wheel and narrowly missed barreling into a tree, I knew it was time for a talk.
I was weary and desperate, so I was blunt. I told him he snored, loudly and every single night. My work was suffering, and I was fast becoming a menace behind the wheel. I could feel myself getting more annoyed by the day. I told him I had done research on dental devices, breathing strips, and over-the-counter throat sprays—I was not sleeping anyway—so could we try to solve this problem together? At first, he was defensive. "Oh, come on, it cannot be that bad," he said. "I will tape you if you need proof," I snapped, but my stone face and the black bags under my eyes made it clear that would not be necessary.
He agreed to the strips and the sprays but held off on the dental device. They occasionally lessened the depth and duration of the snoring, but most nights I endured full-on window rattling. And something else was also off: I missed my space. A room with my personal stamp, my personality. A place where I could be completely alone. Something I had gotten used to and treasured during the period between marriages.
I soon realized it was not a future trip to the dentist that we needed to discuss. It was a conversation about needs and idiosyncrasies and different temperaments—he is an extrovert, I am an introvert. A discussion of what was important to me, and how sleeping apart was essential for both my physical and mental well-being. He needed a few days to process, but ultimately he admitted that the change might do him some good as well. It turned out that my nightly shushes and countless demands for him to turn on his side, which helped minimize the snoring, had taken a toll on his energy level too. I insisted that he stay in the master bedroom. I would buy a full bed and use the small room I had been using as a home office for sleeping.
A lot has changed since those early talks. We married, moved a few times—making sure there was a bedroom for each of us—saw our children enter adulthood and leave the nest, and weathered the ups and downs of life in the 21st century. We spent years keeping our sleeping arrangements a secret, convinced that our family and friends would find the idea alarming or at the very least odd. Lately, I find myself sharing our truth, selectively. Sleeping separately may be more common today—a recent poll says nearly 1 in 4 married couples sleep in separate beds—but it is still only mentioned in whispers.
I think it is time for the sleep-divorced to lose our shame and let the coupled, sleep-deprived masses know what they are missing. The royals and the upper classes should not have a lock on a good night's sleep while those of us who need one are hamstrung by societal rules that may work for some but not for all.
Have I occasionally wished for a night when I turn and he is beside me? Of course. In that gauzy state between being awake and not, I realize that my sleep divorce has been a trade-off. I have not had the warmth and closeness of cuddling and spooning, and I do often miss him in those quiet hours. But sleeping apart gives me the energy I need to do everything else, as a full and fully conscious partner. And when we do connect in one of those beds, I am wide awake for all of it.
