There I was—in class again. Tired again. Such is the life of a graduate student. When you’re going to class, working, and completing an internship, “tired” is the norm.
As I woke up from one of my many naps that day, I saw that today’s class was on sleep disorders, mostly insomnia. “Great,” I thought to myself. “I just woke up, and now I have to learn about sleep. Maybe I should leave and get some sleep. That would be more helpful.”
However, this was the only class about sleep disorders in the entire graduate program, so I decided to power through. During the lecture, there was one slide on narcolepsy. It was in that slide, in those 10 minutes, that I saw myself. It was that slide that changed my life.
The Moment It Clicked
It’s a tale as old as time: A clinician in training reads about a diagnosis in class and starts to wonder if they have it, too. I glanced through the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). It described narcolepsy as “uncontrollable episodes of falling asleep, at least a few times a day.” Check. “Sleep paralysis … Oh, that’s what that is?” Check. “Autonomic behaviors … Is that why my notes look like this, why I write when I’m asleep!?” Check. As I moved down the list, more and more of the symptoms applied to me.
It could not be that simple. The last 7 years had been so difficult, but here I was—I made it through undergraduate and now I am at the end of graduate school—and I am just learning about this!? The naps under my desk at work. The countless energy drinks to make it through the day. The missed social events because I was still tired after sleeping 10 to 12 hours a day for a few hours of alertness. As my mind raced, it grew tired yet again. Wait…is this? No. It cannot be.
I told a few friends and family members I thought I had narcolepsy. My friends said, “Well, that explains why you nap all the time.” My family thought I needed more rest. After all, I was working a lot.
My primary care physician at the time seemed to humor me with a referral to a sleep clinic. The sleep specialist I met there said, “You’re young and healthy, and this is a rare diagnosis, but we’ll go along with the testing, just to make sure.”
A month after graduation, I underwent the necessary testing: polysomnography (PSG) and a multiple sleep latency test (MSLT). Sure enough, I was diagnosed with narcolepsy type 2.
When the Clinician Becomes the Patient
Being a clinician with a diagnosis isn’t something I was prepared for. As clinicians, we are taught to see evidence and be objective. We navigate a patient’s world not for ourselves, but to help individuals gain clarity about their symptoms—to answer questions using the science and training we rely on. This is why I went to school. This is why I completed thousands of hours of training. I am an expert, and I am here to help. That’s what I told myself. So what happens when you become the patient?
I have practiced as a mental health clinician with my own diagnosis since day one. At first, I didn’t think it affected me. But I was performative—I felt I had to do more to prove I could succeed in my career while living with narcolepsy. Everyone’s normal was not my normal, but I worked hard to appear “normal” to my colleagues. I felt like they could not know. And if they found out, they would not have any standing to question me.
So I adapted. I napped when I could—quietly, strategically. In my car. Under my desk. In closets. In bathrooms. It took a lot of energy to appear “normal,” especially for someone whose energy was low to begin with.
For years, this performance went on. If acting awards were given to clinicians, I’m sure I would have been nominated. But over time, I couldn’t hold this dichotomy in my head. The divide between who I was and how I presented myself became harder to maintain.
Seeing Myself in My Patients
I began to notice something during patient sessions. As they shared their struggles and their own performances, I found myself nodding.
Just as I had seen myself in that classroom slide years earlier, I began to see myself in my patients. And, at some level, I was sure they saw through my performance as well. I would sit with patients as they came to me with their concerns. When they talked about their struggles and their performances, I would nod. I began to see my reflection in their eyes. They were relating to me, because at some level, they saw through my performance as well.
Being a mental health clinician with a diagnosis in the DSM has given me insight that I wouldn’t have otherwise. As a practicing clinician, it can be hard for me to sit with someone to confront something difficult: I don’t always have all the answers.
The truth is, there is a great deal of uncertainty in medicine. The more we know, the more we don’t know. Patients look to us for answers, but more importantly for certainty. The uncertainty of medicine can be anxiety-provoking for patients, even when things go as planned. As a clinician, I often try to buffer this—I sit, and I guide my patients through the fog. What is harder is acknowledging that I experience the same anxieties and concerns about the uncertainty of it all.
The line between patient and clinician is just that—a line. And often, it’s a thin one. I learned that it’s more important to be human. To sit with a patient—not above them, not separate from them—but alongside them, even in uncertainty.
Patients aren’t always there for answers. They’re not always there for clarity. They may spend much of their lives putting on a performance to appear “normal” for the outside world, but in the clinical space, they’re there to be seen, to be heard, and to be understood.
I see my patients more clearly now because I see and accept myself. I can hold both realities: at times, I am the clinician and at times, I am the patient. I don’t run to shelter from one to the other. I exist in parallels because I am human with parallel existing contradictions.
A Different Way Forward
Edward Deci, PhD, one of my professors in college, died recently. He was a founder of self-determination theory (SDT), a framework for understanding human motivation, personality, and well-being. It posits that people thrive when three basic psychological needs are met: autonomy (choice), competence (mastery), and relatedness (connection).
As clinicians, we often rely on a grab bag of strategies—tests, procedures, diagnoses, and objective goals. These are all important. But in the quest for true flourishing and healing, there’s a deeper element that not only ties together those efforts but organizes and energizes them: purpose.
Finding purpose isn’t a one-and-done process. It is the process. And when purpose is present, life with a sleep disorder can feel less like a tug-of-war and more like stepping into a strong current—one that carries you forward.
When I talk with patients who also have a sleep disorder, I acknowledge it can be isolating at times and even overwhelming. But then we talk about purpose. The “why” has to be bigger than the “how.” I let them know they don’t have to perform here, and we can navigate the uncertainty together. We are here together.
By Chris Peters, MS, LCMHC-S
Source: SleepWorld Magazine 五月/六月 2026
Chris Peters, MS, LCMHC-S, is a licensed mental health clinician living in Charlotte, N.C., who loves to hike and lift weights in his free time. Now a trained speaker with Project Sleep’s Rising Voices program, Chris shares his story to raise awareness about the importance of sleep in the mental health field and equip others with the language to talk about sleep.
