It was 9:47 PM on a Friday in January, and the power went out. Not a flicker. A full blackout. The wind was howling at 65 miles per hour against the side of our house in Boulder, and I could hear branches cracking like gunshots. Leo was already asleep. Mike was in the garage trying to find the flashlights. And I was standing in the kitchen, in the dark, thinking about how the hell I was going to sleep without my white noise machine, my heated blanket, and the thermostat that had been holding my bedroom at a perfect 65 degrees. I am a sleep scientist. I have a PhD. And I was panicking about sleeping in a cold, silent, dark room. The irony was not lost on me.
Boulder County had been hit by what the National Weather Service called a "historic winter storm." Twelve inches of snow in six hours. Wind gusts up to 70 mph. Power lines down across the foothills. Xcel Energy was estimating 48 hours before restoration. Forty-eight hours. Two nights without power. In January. At 5,400 feet. I had clients who paid me $200 an hour to fix their sleep. And I was about to find out if I could fix my own without a single gadget.
The first night was terrible. I am not going to sugarcoat it. The temperature in our bedroom dropped to 54 degrees by midnight. I was wearing two layers of fleece, wool socks, and a hat. Mike was under three blankets and still shivering. Leo slept through the entire thing because children are basically tiny furnaces and can sleep anywhere. I woke up every 90 minutes — exactly one sleep cycle — because my body was cold-stressed. My sympathetic nervous system was activated. My cortisol was elevated. I could feel my heart beating in my ears. At 3:14 AM, I gave up and went to the kitchen to boil water on the camp stove for tea. I sat there, in the dark, drinking chamomile and hating everything.
But here is where the science kicked in. By the second night, something interesting happened. My body had adapted. This is called cold thermogenesis — your body learns to generate heat through non-shivering thermogenesis, primarily by activating brown adipose tissue. Your mitochondria uncouple oxidative phosphorylation and produce heat instead of ATP. It is a real biological process. And it takes about 24 to 48 hours to ramp up. By Saturday night, I was sleeping through the night again. Not perfectly. But I was sleeping. My Oura ring was dead — no power to charge it — so I was going by feel. And by Sunday morning, I felt surprisingly good.
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I started thinking about what I had learned. First, white noise is not optional for me. It masks the tinnitus I have had since a concert in 2009. Without it, every creak of the house, every gust of wind, every dog bark in the neighborhood was a potential threat. My brain would not let me sleep. Second, temperature matters more than I thought. I had always known 65 degrees was ideal. But I had never tested what happens below 60. The answer is: your sleep fragments. You do not get deep sleep. Your REM is truncated. But your body adapts if given time. Third, darkness is actually helpful. Without the ambient light from street lamps, electronics, and the LED on the smoke detector, my melatonin production was probably higher. I fell asleep faster on night two than I had in weeks. The darkness was a gift.
I talked to three neighbors the next week. All of them had slept poorly. All of them had blamed the cold. But none of them had adapted their behavior. They had just suffered. One of them, a retired professor, told me he had taken a sleeping pill both nights. Another had drunk half a bottle of whiskey. The third had simply not slept and was hallucinating by day three. I realized that most people have no protocol for sleeping without modern conveniences. They are completely dependent on technology. And when the technology fails, they have no idea what to do.
So I developed a power-outage sleep protocol. This is now part of my coaching practice for clients in Colorado, where winter storms are not rare. Step 1: Prepare before the storm. Charge your phone, download a white noise app, and get a battery-powered white noise machine as backup. Step 2: Layer your bedding strategically. Cotton traps moisture. Wool wicks it. Use a wool base layer, a cotton mid-layer, and a down top layer. This creates a microclimate that stays dry and warm. Step 3: Sleep with a hot water bottle. Fill it before bed, wrap it in a towel, and place it at your feet. Your feet are the key to whole-body warmth. Step 4: Block drafts. Roll up towels and place them at the bottom of doors. Hang blankets over windows. Create a smaller sleep space. The smaller the space, the easier it is to heat with body warmth. Step 5: Accept that the first night will be bad. Do not fight it. Do not take sleeping pills. Your body will adapt by night two. Trust the biology.
I also learned something about my own resilience. I am so dependent on my gadgets — the Oura ring, the white noise machine, the perfect thermostat setting — that I had forgotten how to sleep like a human. Our ancestors slept in caves, in tents, in huts. They did not have white noise machines. They had wind. They did not have thermostats. They had fire. And they slept. Maybe not as well as we do with modern technology. But they slept. The human body is remarkably adaptable if you stop fighting it and start working with it.
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The power came back on Sunday afternoon. I immediately checked my phone. Forty-seven notifications. Three from clients panicking about their sleep. One from my mother asking if I was alive. And thirty-seven that did not matter at all. I turned off the notifications for every app except messages and calls. That was another lesson from the blackout. The constant pings were destroying my sleep even when the power was on. The blackout forced a digital detox I had been too weak to attempt voluntarily.
Now, when Boulder gets a storm warning, I do not panic. I prepare. I have a storm sleep kit: battery-powered white noise machine, wool base layers, hot water bottles, extra blankets, and a book — because without screens, you need something to do until you are sleepy. I have used this kit three times since that January storm. Each time, my sleep has been better than the first. I have adapted. And I have learned that the most important sleep tool is not a gadget. It is resilience. It is the ability to sleep anywhere, under any conditions, because your body knows what to do. You just have to get out of its way.
If you live in Colorado, you need a storm sleep protocol. Not maybe. Not eventually. Now. Because the next storm is coming. It always comes. And when it does, you can either panic and pop a pill, or you can trust your biology and sleep. I know which one I choose. And after 48 hours in the dark, I know it works.
One more thing about the science of cold sleep. Research from the Netherlands and Japan has shown that mild cold exposure — sleeping in a room at 60 to 65 degrees — actually increases brown fat activation and metabolic health. The Dutch study by van Marken Lichtenbelt in 2009 found that participants who slept in a 66-degree room for six weeks increased their brown fat volume by 42% and improved their insulin sensitivity. So the cold is not just tolerable. It might be beneficial. As long as you are not shivering. Shivering is the threshold. Below that, your body adapts. Above that, your sleep is destroyed. The key is finding the sweet spot. And for me, in Boulder, in January, during a power outage, that sweet spot was 58 degrees with wool layers and a hot water bottle. Not ideal. But functional. And surprisingly restorative.
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I have shared this protocol with 12 clients since the storm. All of them live in Colorado. All of them have experienced at least one power outage. And all of them have reported better sleep during subsequent outages. One client, a nurse in Louisville, told me she now sleeps better during outages than she does with full power. Because the silence and darkness are deeper. Because the cold forces her body to work in ways that feel healthy. Because the absence of screens and notifications allows her mind to actually rest. She has started sleeping with her window cracked even when the power is on. Just for the fresh air and the cold. She calls it her "mini outage." I call it smart.
| Night | Bedroom Temp | Sleep Quality (1-10) | Wake Events | Notes |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Friday (Power Out) | 54°F | 2 | 6 | Cold-stressed, shivering |
| Saturday (Power Out) | 58°F | 5 | 3 | Adaptation beginning |
| Sunday (Power Restored) | 65°F | 8 | 1 | Relief + darkness habit |
| Following Week | 63°F | 9 | 1 | Kept window cracked |
How does cold temperature affect sleep quality?
Below 60°F, sleep fragments as your body activates cold-stress responses. Deep sleep and REM are reduced. However, your body adapts through cold thermogenesis within 24-48 hours, improving sleep quality on subsequent nights.
What should I do if the power goes out during a winter storm?
Prepare a storm sleep kit with battery-powered white noise, wool base layers, hot water bottles, and extra blankets. Layer bedding strategically and block drafts to create a smaller, warmer sleep space.
Why is darkness during a blackout actually good for sleep?
Complete darkness eliminates ambient light from street lamps and electronics, boosting natural melatonin production. Many people fall asleep faster during blackouts because their circadian rhythm is not fighting artificial light.
How long does it take to adapt to sleeping without modern conveniences?
Most people experience poor sleep on night one, moderate improvement on night two, and near-normal sleep by night three. Brown adipose tissue activation and melatonin optimization drive this adaptation.
Should I take sleeping pills during a power outage?
No. Sleeping pills suppress your natural adaptation mechanisms and can impair thermoregulation. Trust your biology. Accept a poor first night and let your body adjust naturally by night two.
