What Writing at 2AM Taught Me About Loneliness, Deadlines, and Holding On

There’s a strange stillness that settles into the world at 2AM.

Not the cinematic kind, not the type where city lights twinkle and inspiration strikes like lightning. No, this one is quieter. Uglier. More human. It’s when your room feels like it’s floating in a dark sea, your tea’s gone cold, and the cursor is still blinking at the top of a headline you haven’t written yet.

That’s how I’ve lived for the last year: a 2AM writer on a deadline no one can see but me.

I started freelancing in entertainment journalism thinking it would be glamorous. “You’ll write about Pedro Pascal and red carpets,” friends said. “You get to work from home! In your pajamas!” And sure, I do write about Pedro Pascal. And yes, I work in oversized hoodies with coffee or hot chocolate nearby. But no one warned me how lonely it would feel chasing deadlines in the dark, or how often I’d refresh Twitter for quotes because no one else was awake to ask for help.

Back in India, journalism was loud. It had a face. A newsroom. Chai breaks and chaos. But here, in the UK, chasing full-time roles while bartending by day and writing by night, I became invisible. My byline floated across the internet, but my voice? My voice was whispering in Google Docs, hoping someone, anyone, would read it and remember.

There’s something brutally honest about writing under pressure at that hour. You don’t have the energy to fake it. You stop trying to sound smart. You just tell the story. And somehow, in that exhaustion, you find your truest self. No filters, no second-guessing. Just fingers typing what your heart already knows.

I remember once writing about a Black Mirror episode called Eulogy, where a man uses tech to relive his memories of a lost love. It messed me up. Not just because the episode was good, but because I knew exactly what it meant to hold onto something that’s already gone. I think that’s what writing is for me: the act of holding on. To feelings, to moments, to people I couldn’t say goodbye to properly.

Some nights I stare at the words I’ve written, fast, maybe messy, but raw, and I don’t even remember typing them. That’s how deep the flow goes at 2AM. But then, there’s this odd moment of peace. Like I’ve survived something. Like I’ve translated the chaos in my chest into something that makes sense.

It’s easy to feel like no one sees this side of you. The side that wakes up at 11AM, coffee in one hand, and edits last night’s chaos with bleary eyes. The side that hits “submit” and then spirals about whether your editor hated it. The side that balances dreams with bills, ambition with anxiety, and writing with rent.

But I see her now.

She’s the one who didn’t quit. Who chased stories through Reddit threads and fandom rabbit holes. Who stayed curious. Who kept believing that one day, this patchwork life of words and worry would mean something.

I don’t know if I’ll ever fully outrun the 2AM writer in me. Maybe I don’t want to. She taught me things no classroom ever could: how to sit with loneliness, how to meet a deadline even when the world feels like it’s ending, and how to trust that your voice matters, even if it echoes in the dark.

Because even now, I’m still her. I’m still that 2AM writer, hustling quietly, dreaming loudly, and searching for a full-time job that finally sees my worth.

So if you’re reading this, maybe late into your own quiet night, wondering if your work is worth it, or if you’re falling behind, I promise, you’re not alone. We’re all just trying to write our way out of the silence.

And sometimes, at writing at 2AM, that’s more than enough.