There are moments as a parent when you just stop and think: how on earth are we meant to do this every single night? For me, that moment came somewhere around the hundredth bedtime battle with my son, Theo. He was seven at the time, bright, funny, endlessly curious, and absolutely allergic to the concept of sleep.
Theo doesn’t just struggle to wind down; he’s got what I call the “no off switch” gene. His ADHD means his mind and body are constantly on the go, ideas bouncing around like popcorn kernels in a hot pan. He can’t just stop. He wants to play, to talk, to ask big questions about the world, and he could probably keep doing that until 3am if we let him.
And as lovely as his energy is, when it’s 9:30pm on a school night and he’s hanging upside down off the sofa singing about biscuits, it’s… a lot.
The bedtime chaos
I used to imagine bedtime would be this wholesome family ritual: bubble bath, story, cuddles, lights out, angelic child asleep by eight. Ha.
What actually happened looked more like this:
- Theo literally bouncing off the walls
- Me and his dad repeating “It’s bedtime” until it lost all meaning
- The inevitable “I’m hungry!” (after dinner, pudding, and a sneaky biscuit)
- And, if we were lucky, only one meltdown before he finally gave in
If you’ve ever tried to reason with a seven-year-old who’s had a packet of Palma Violets at 8pm (Theo’s sweet of choice, goodness knows why, they taste like perfume), you’ll understand the special kind of despair that sets in.
There were nights when I honestly thought: I can’t do this anymore. My patience was gone. My nerves were frayed. I’d end up sitting on the landing just trying to breathe while Theo sang to his teddies through the wall.
The guilt spiral
What made it worse was the guilt. Because I knew it wasn’t really his fault. ADHD isn’t something you can discipline out of a child. It’s how their brain works. Theo’s system is wired for movement and stimulation; he doesn’t have a natural “off” button. So when I felt myself snapping or shouting, the guilt would come crashing in straight after.
It’s easy to think why can’t he just go to sleep like other kids? But the truth is, his brain doesn’t work like other kids’. And as his parents, we had to learn how to help his mind and body slow down, which is far easier said than done when you’re exhausted and running on cold tea and hope.
Some nights we’d nail it. Calm voice, gentle routine, all was well. Other nights were pure chaos, tears (from both of us), slammed doors, and me googling “can you actually die from lack of sleep” at 11pm.
When I hit my limit
One night after a particularly explosive bedtime, I sat on the edge of my bed, shaking. Heart racing, jaw clenched, absolutely done. I opened the meditation app I used for myself and hit play.
It was one of those simple breathing meditations, the kind that tells you to “breathe in calm, breathe out tension”. I did it, mostly out of desperation, and slowly felt my blood pressure move from “volcanic eruption” back to “slightly simmering stew”.
And that’s when it hit me: if meditation could calm me, maybe it could help him.
The first bedtime meditation with Theo
The next night, I told Theo we were going to try something different. I said, “We’re going to do a game called ‘melting your body like chocolate’.” He was instantly interested because, well, chocolate.
We lay down together, and I guided him, nothing fancy, just my own made-up version of a body scan. “Can you feel your toes getting soft and sleepy?” I asked. “Can you imagine your legs melting into your bed?”
To my absolute shock, it worked. He giggled a bit, then went quiet. His body actually stilled. Within ten minutes, he was snuggled under his duvet with his teddy dog Max, eyes heavy. That was the first time I’d seen him drift off calmly in months.
The stories that grew with him
After that, bedtime started to change. We began using little meditations each night, breathing, gentle imagination games, stories about floating on clouds or watching thoughts drift past like bubbles.
He loved it. Until he didn’t.
Because after a few weeks, he started saying, “Mum, I already know that one.” And honestly, he was right. The apps I was using had a handful of meditations that I just kept recycling. The same voice, the same script, the same everything.
So I started making them up. At first they were chaotic, stories about flying penguins, magic forests, and teddies that could talk (he has a particular soft spot for his dog teddy, Max, who in our bedtime stories became a sort of wise little companion). Then they became calmer, more structured. A breathing moment. A body scan. A story that drifted into dreams.
And it worked. He began to look forward to bedtime. I stopped dreading it.
Finding what worked for us
It wasn’t perfect. Some nights were still messy, we’d still have the odd meltdown, or he’d suddenly remember an urgent Lego project at 9pm. But there was a noticeable shift. The calm moments became longer. The chaos shorter.
And more importantly, I realised we’d built something together, a little ritual that helped both of us feel safe and connected.
I’d always thought meditation was for grown-ups with incense and fancy candles. But seeing it work with Theo made me realise how powerful it could be for kids too, especially those like him, whose minds never stop racing.
When the idea for Dozey arrived
At some point, between the bedtime experiments and the endless “Muuuum, one more story?”, I started to wonder: What if other parents could have this too?
Because surely, we can’t be the only family struggling with bedtime chaos. Surely, other parents are also hiding on the stairs, clutching cold cups of tea, whispering “please just go to sleep” to the universe.
I wanted to create something that could help, something calm, safe, and a bit magical, that didn’t rely on screens or overstimulation. Something that could be personalised, so kids like Theo wouldn’t get bored after three listens.
That’s where Dozey was born.
A bedtime companion built for kids who find it hard to settle, especially those with ADHD, anxiety, or big imaginations. Dozey offers personalised meditations and stories that feel fresh every time. It’s calm, it’s kind, and it meets children exactly where they are.
I built it because I needed it. And if you’re reading this, maybe you do too.
What Theo taught me
Theo still has his ups and downs, some nights are peaceful, others feel like a full-blown musical number, but bedtime doesn’t fill me with dread anymore. He knows what helps him. He knows his breathing exercises. He knows that Max the dog will always be there waiting, ready for another story.
And I know that I don’t have to be perfect. I just have to show up, take a breath, and keep trying.
Parenting isn’t about getting it right every time. It’s about finding tiny moments of calm in the madness and holding on to them like treasure.