At bedtime, nothing soothes like a YouTube video about space 

Published in Well+Good, November 2023. Original article link / Archived article link.

Struggling To Fall Asleep? Watching a Video About Space Could Help You Drift Right Off Into the Dreamy Ether

As I’m getting ready for sleep, the distant murmur of London traffic is a permanent part of the soundscape in my bedroom. Equally omnipresent is talk of subatomic particles and how the sun will swallow the Earth one day; my partner Luke likes to drift off to sleep amid the sounds of “black hole videos,” or videos about space and science. I found it odd at first, but I’ve come to appreciate the roster of pensive astrophysicists who accompany us to bed. Their engaging narratives and cool graphics transport us to the far reaches of the universe and of human understanding, as we shift into unconsciousness—but above all, says Luke: “They soothe me.”

These black hole videos are from the science channels of YouTube, here to educate and entertain. Luke’s favorite is PBS Space Time, hosted by astrophysicist and king of the jokey science T-shirts Matt O’Dowd (“Heat Death is Coming”). Luke also enjoys History of the Universe (“best for sleeping”), Quanta, Sea Space, Cool Worlds (“the best voice”) and Astrum, which recently launched Sleep Space, a podcast sharing intel about space in a “relaxing way,” geared specifically to all the people who, like Luke, use space videos to fall asleep.

“Intellectually, the universe is an escape—a respite from the constant noise and din of our lives,” says astrophysicist David Kipping, assistant professor of astronomy at Columbia University, head of the Cool Worlds lab, and host of the aforementioned Cool Worlds YouTube channel. Our lives here on Earth are full of stress—work problems, niggling relationship worries, money troubles, sadness about the state of the world—and it can all come to a head in the form of anxiety as we’re trying to go to sleep. But with a nighttime trip to extrasolar worlds by way of a space video, these Earthly worries can feel less significant.

Dr. Kipping also thinks that pondering space can spark awe, which can soothe a restless mind. As with art, we’re often drawn to questions of philosophy and science without necessarily any “bread-on-the-table functional purpose,” he says. “When we lie on the grass and look up at the stars wondering about their stories, there’s no foreseeable return on that investment.” And when so many of our daily actions are done with particular future-oriented goals in mind, this kind of aimless pondering can be an especially wonderful and relaxing thing, he says.

The existential nature of space videos (Dr. Kipping has been known to ask questions like, Why is something something rather than nothing?) can further stoke our fascination. “Deep down, I think there’s a sense of wonder within us all about these questions,” says Dr. Kipping. “Contemplating the cosmos stirs our imagination, and inspires and elevates our consciousness. It helps give us some context as to what our lives are really all about.” Considering we live in a moment obsessed with productivity and metrics (we’ve even gamified sleep by wearing trackers that tell us if we’ve done a good job sleeping), space videos can provide some much-needed perspective, which can then help us chill out and get some rest.

“These science shows can really remind us how small we are,” says sleep researcher Mathias Basner, director of the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine’s Unit for Experimental Psychiatry, Division of Sleep and Chronobiology. “[They] basically tell you that the Earth is just a tiny freckle in the universe, and you’re just a tiny freckle on Earth.” Acknowledging that reality can “shift your focus away from everyday anxieties and onto something more expansive,” says registered clinical counsellor Nilou Esmaeilpour, founder of Lotus Therapy. “Cosmic events are beyond our control, and accepting that can ease our worries.”

This is especially relevant for people who’ve experienced trauma and who may struggle to practice typical mindfulness exercises to calm their mind before bed, adds Esmaeilpour. “Some people with trauma can find it really hard to sit down and meditate…It can feel threatening to go inside themselves because sitting in silence can bring up disturbing images or thoughts,” she says. “What may be more helpful is to use soothing visuals, which can send a message to their nervous system: ‘You’re okay, you’re safe, and nothing bad is happening.’”

While the general consensus among sleep scientists is that looking at screens in the bedroom before going to sleep is bad (the blue light they emit can be arousing), Dr. Basner caveats that for some people, it’s okay to watch a show before bed if it helps with drifting off. For example, people who live in noisy places often report that a soothing show can help mask unwanted noise and allow them to fall asleep, he says. The important thing is to avoid anything loud or exciting, and make sure to use a timer so it turns off after a while, he adds: “Just like the brain needs to recuperate when we’re sleeping, the auditory system also needs to rest.”

Turning off YouTube auto-play, then, is a must for anyone who uses space videos to fall asleep; you want to watch your selected show and drift off—not worry about what your unconscious mind might absorb from an algorithm left to its own devices. Josh Pudlo, who lives in Connecticut, is especially aware of what he’s absorbing in the moments when he’s not quite awake, but not yet asleep. For him, watching space videos just as he’s falling asleep, while he’s straddling the border between conscious and unconscious, is a part of the appeal: “That’s the moment when your mind seems to be open to the idea of anything and everything being possible; you feel like you’re a part of the universe, of the unknown,” he says.

Josh’s favorite YouTube channel is History of the Universe because of the lengthy, detailed videos. “I’m an extremely vivid dreamer,” says Josh, explaining that watching these videos at bedtime often means he’ll dream about the topics, too. “All of a sudden, I’m traveling across the universe in a dream where there are no laws of physics, so the possibilities are endless,” he says. “Without these videos, my dreams wouldn’t be nearly as expansive and immersive.”

Zac Logsdon, who lives in Oklahoma, began to use space videos to fall asleep after being fed one by the algorithm of his TikTok “For You” page; the app now allows videos to go for as long as 10 minutes, giving physicists like Neil deGrasse Tyson and Brian Cox time to ponder the state of our universe. “I don’t have a long attention span, but I was just so drawn in by it, and now, [TikTok] shows them to me all the time,” says Zac, noting that the accidental discovery has been a boon for his sleep. “I have a difficult time shutting my brain off [at night]…My mind races with all the things I need to be doing or problems I need to solve. But watching videos like these helps me realize the insignificance of everything. It allows me to say to myself, ‘This is not a big deal. You’ve got your health, your kids are healthy, you’ve got a roof over your head—go to sleep.’”

For Luke, space videos have become a refuge from a world where people often pretend to have it all figured out. “We know so little, yet as a species, we walk around with such hubris, [telling each other that] if you follow the rules, life will go well,” he says. But in reality, we have so little control over preventing bad things from happening—a fact we’re often reluctant to acknowledge. “We all have a relationship with chaos, but most people just pretend the chaos doesn’t exist,” says Luke. For him, to watch a video about how the Earth will one day be swallowed up by the sun is to place himself in relation to chaos; it’s a way to face the chaos that’s everywhere, but at a safe distance. (After all, we have hundreds of millions of years left.)

Luke’s favorite nighttime YouTube subject is black holes, which reflect the frontier of order and human knowledge—where the laws of physics break down. “My black hole nighttime video routine lets me approach the horizon of knowability with curiosity, and that is empowering,” he says. Ultimately, we’re at the mercy of everything around us; we matter, yet also, we don’t. “Watching these videos makes me feel in calibration with the universe,” says Luke. And with that, he can relax and fall asleep.

“When the tide’s at full force there’s no chance you can swim against it”

Men’s Health, November 2025. PDF here.

Nigel Walley, 61, has been swimming in the Thames since he was a boy and now regularly tackles the iconic river’s tidal section. He explains what it’s like to be in the water as the tide surges. As told to Jessica Furseth .

We went for an hour and a half swim in the Thames the other weekend – I really can’t do that in a pool, it’s so boring. But in the river, it’s just a pleasure. We went up to Kew Bridge and got in when the tide turned, and swam with the tide all the way down to Hammersmith. A lot of it is about managing where you are in the water, as the river does much of the work. A key rule is to make sure you know where you can get out, because when you’re in the Thames, you’re on the river’s territory. 

I’m a Londoner, born and bred in West London. I’m married with two grown kids and I run a tech startup. I still live near the river, in Chiswick, and I’ll swim three seasons out of four, when the water is over 15 degrees. I’ll go in the river two or three times a week, always with friends – it’s crazy to swim alone. 

I mostly swim in the Thames tideway out of Hammersmith – it’s illegal to swim in Central London until you’re west of Putney Bridge. But the Thames is strongly tidal up to Teddington Lock, and the tideway is a difficult bit of water. A lot of people avoid it because the river is strong and surging. There’s a lot of boats and things moored in the river – pontoons, rafts and buoys. Up past the lock, the river is more like a lake. But you really need to keep your wits about you to swim in the tideway.

Swimming the tideway is all about timing. Often we go in at Hammersmith, when the tide’s still coming in. We swim with the tide from Hammersmith up to Chiswick where there’s an ait, an island in the river. If you time it right, the tide dies by the time you get to the end of the ait. We go around it and then the tide starts going out. By the time we’re coming back to Hammersmith, the tide is surging quite strongly.  

If we get the timing wrong, we have to swim the last 100 yards against a tide that’s just turned – it’s amazingly strong. When it’s at full force there’s no chance you can swim against it. One of my earliest memories was seeing a canoeist go under a pontoon in Richmond. He eventually came out the other side, but it was an important lesson in how strong the current is. It’s best not to be anywhere near a moored object, as the river will drag you under.

When I was growing up my parents had a boat on the Thames at Richmond, nothing grand but just something we could take up to Teddington on a Sunday. We’d swim anywhere as kids – there wasn’t the same focus on safety. As I got older we’d have a bit of a swim from Strand-on-the-Green in Chiswick before going to the pub. I was a rower as well, at Thames Rowing Club in Putney. The river has always been part of my life. 

You shouldn’t swim more than ten metres out from the bank in the tideway, and you should never cross the river – this is because of the shipping channel. There’s always boats and rowers in the river and they can’t really see you, and in any case, they can’t stop. You have to stay out of their way. I’ve been lucky that I’ve never had a dicey moment.

There’s a lot of focus on sewage spills into the Thames, so we always check if it’s good to swim. The river has been tangibly cleaner this year since we got the Thames Tideway Tunnel, the sewer diversion around London. But there are still some problem spots. We’re becoming more aware of the Thames as a complex river network.

The river is ours – it’s for all Londoners. One time there was a seal that came and swam with us. That was really special – a seal popping its head up and swimming with you for a bit. That’s how we know the river is mostly healthy. 

The Thames is like a national park that cuts right through the city. There’s something magical about being in the water in the middle of London. On the other side of Chiswick Ait, there are natural riverbanks on both sides and it feels really remote. There’s a real sense of peace, out in the middle of the Thames. We look at cormorants as we swim. And then suddenly, we’re back in Hammersmith again. 

Brev fra Europa

Uncertain States Scandinavia #25 “Europa”, september 2025. Original her (side 2).

Brev fra Europa

Jeg vokste opp i en liten verden, i ei norsk bygd med flere kyr enn folk – naturskjønn, men utrolig kjedelig for meg som tenåring. Vi begynte å lære engelsk på skolen da jeg var ti år, og jeg husker ennå hvor viktig det føltes, å lære dette språket som var nøkkelen til verden. Jeg teipet papir over undertekstene på TV for å oppfordre meg selv til å høre på hva de sa. Uten engelsk, ingen verden.

Jeg reiste fra Norge da jeg var 19, og flyttet til England med to kolli og en studieplass – det var et historisk lykkesøyeblikk, muliggjort av et system satt opp for å oppfordre unge folk til å bevege seg internasjonalt. Dette var rundt årtusenskiftet, mens de fremdeles snakket om «globalisering» som om det var uunngåelig. Vi skulle alle se ut mot verden, og utveksle varer, ideer og mennesker. Jeg var heldig: Lånekassen gav meg utenlandsstipend som dekket alle skolepenger, et studielån som tok seg av boutgifter, og jeg ble uteksaminert med en veldig overkommelig gjeldsbyrde. Foreldrene mine støttet mine internasjonale ambisjoner – de var helt sikkert bekymret, men det holdt de for seg selv, slik at jeg kunne se på verden som en godlynt mulighet full av gode ting som ventet på meg. 

Storbritannia var fremdeles medlem av EU den gang, så det var aldri snakk om grenser eller visum. Det var helt klart en privilegert posisjon – men jeg kjenner så mange som har en lignende historie. Universitetet mitt i England var fullt av europeere som så på utenlandsstudium som mer en en akademisk utdannelse – det var en mulighet for å lære om verden og om oss selv. Det jeg husker best er ikke skole, men oppdagelsen av at ting som jeg trodde var åpenbare og naturlige faktisk bare var kultur. Å bo i utlandet får deg til å se på ting med nye øyne: Er dette bra, eller bare noe jeg er vant til? Er dette noe jeg vil, eller har jeg aldri tenkt over det? Jeg prøver fremdeles å tenke slik.

Jeg har bodd i England i over 20 år nå – jeg kom aldri tilbake til Norge (jeg var nok en dårlig investering for Lånekassen). Men globaliseringa kom aldri – Europa har blitt mer isolasjonistisk, med land som er mer fokusert på sine egne problemer enn «den europeiske storfamilien». Jeg er dobbel norsk-britisk statsborger nå, på grunn av Brexit – jeg har enda ikke helt kommet over sjokket over at åpenhetsprinsippet som var grunnlaget for hele mitt liv, ikke lenger eksisterer, i hvertfall ikke der jeg bor. Jeg hadde ingen anelse om hvor skjøre internasjonale avtaler kunne være før jeg så dem bli skrotet, sånn helt uten videre. Det hadde ikke vært mulig for meg å bli værende i England etter universitetet under dagens immigrasjonsregler, da det ville krevd umiddelbar høytlønnet jobb for å sikre arbeidsvisum. Dette er noe jeg tenker på ofte – hvor stort et tap det er for Storbritannia å ikke lenger la unge europeere komme hit for å «drive dank» – ta sørvisjobber, lage kunst og forme band – slikt som 20-åringer gjør mens de finner ut av livet. Jeg tenker på hvor mange vennskap og ekteskap som aldri blir formet fordi grensene er stengt, hvor mange ideer vi ikke får delt, og hvor mange løsninger vi aldri kommer til å finne fordi vi ikke får sett ting fra andre synsvinkler. Migrasjon har blitt veldig alvorlig og veldig dyrt i Storbritannia, og det har gjort oss fattigere.

I denne utgaven av Uncertain States Scandinavia refererer Terje Abusdal til bevegelsesfrihetens privilegium, som kommer og går. Jernteppet er vekk, men EUs grensekontrollbyrå Frontex blokkerer fortsatt migrasjon fra sør – mennesker mister fortsatt livet i forsøket på å nå et fritt Europa. Dette har alltid vært et kontinent der historien er nær oss – Christian Belgaux snakker om en «Ny morgen i den Gamle Verden» med ekstreme høyrekrefter i tilbakekomst, nye kriger, og som vi ser hos Ada Zielinska og Ingmar Björn Nolting, den daglige hjertesorgen over den politiske uviljen til å takle klimakrisas fulle omfang. 

Prinsippet om bevegelsesfrihet gjør at vi europeere kan flytte oss fritt mellom 29 land uten å føle oss malplassert. Maria Di Stefano gir oss en sterk påminnelse om hvor sjeldent dette er på verdensbasis, i hennes fotografier av tenåringer som nektes europeisk statsborgerskap før de fyller 18 år. Dette gjør at de forblir «utlendinger» i alle sine unge år, og dette vil alltid forme deres selvbilde som europeere, også når de får formalisert denne statusen. 

Å bevege seg gjennom Europa som en person som alltid hører til er et privilegium – jeg forstår dette mye bedre nå, etter at jeg plutselig ble stemplet som «utlending» mens Storbritannia i flere år grublet over hvordan de skulle løse det problemet at de hadde 3,2 millioner europeere boende der, nå i prinsippet uten tillatelse. Mens det foregikk var jeg rasende, men den følelsa som sitter igjen er sorg – over alt som har gått tapt for alle som ikke var like heldige som meg, som opplevde et unikt historisk øyeblikk. Resultatet er at jeg føler meg mer europeisk enn noensinne, og jeg har lyst til å hoppe på et tog, som Amanda Iversen Orlich, og reise sakte slik at jeg kan oppleve hvor stort og variert Europa er. Jeg vil huske hvor heldige vi er, når vi kan krysse en grense og føle oss velkommen.

Let them eat oranges – but only in winter

Published in The Simple Things, January 2025.

Midwinter doesn’t really have many smells of its own. Beyond the invitingly acrid aroma of pine and the icy metallic scent of snow, this season’s smells are mostly memories of things that happened before nature went to sleep. Such as the baked goods spiced with ginger, cardamom and nutmeg, grown in summer and dried for later. Or the earthy whiff of wool jumpers that have become damp, bringing to mind sheep grazing in green fields. And as I grew up in a house with a woodstove, a classic winter scent for me is the sweet smoke of burning logs, with sap crusting around the twig holes as a reminder that inside every tree that’s currently bare, spring is waiting. So many good things of winter are the labour of warmer seasons, and our foresight to put away some of our good fortune so we can enjoy it later. 

Except for citrus, that is – this is a delight that belongs solely to winter. Oranges are an unexpected flashy celebration of the coldest months, bursting in the door with unmistakable tang and cheeky brightness. January is peak season for citrus fruits of every persuasion –  this is when oranges are at their most juicy and sweet. Or if you like them tart, this is the time for blood oranges, lemons and grapefruits, and let’s not forget the Seville orange, the queen of marmalade. 

But for me, the citrus I look forward to the most each winter is the little oranges known as satsumas, clementines or tangerines – technically they’re all varieties of mandarins, but can you really tell the difference? They’re all satsumas to me – orange’s sweet, sparky little sister who’s here to just have fun. 

When I was a kid in rural Norway, we couldn’t get satsumas outside of the winter season, making them a rare and longed-for treat. Thrilled at their arrival after what felt like forever, I’d bring them to school with my packed lunches. All my friends did the same – early in the season we’d bring one per day, but once January rolled around and there were fewer sparkling lights to look at, the number was upped to two. That’s the beauty of satsumas – they arrive just in time to claim their place in Christmas stockings, but when all that’s left of yuletide is some rogue tinsel and the dried-up pine needles ground into the carpet, their party has only just started. 

Hitting their prime in January, satsumas add a spritz of brightness to a month where you sometimes have to really look to find it. I still remember how genuinely exciting those sweet little satsumas were to us – when we started school in the late 80s we weren’t allowed to bring in sugary treats, and it hadn’t yet occurred to us that rules could be broken. It sounds almost ridiculously wholesome now, but satsumas really were up there with sweets for us, during their brief, glorious moment of lighting up the darkest season.  

If something is good, must more be better? Sometimes a kid would show up to school with a whopping three satsumas, but the excitement over this abundance would soon give way to disappointment – the third was always one too many. These days you can get oranges, big or small, all year round, but why? Like bringing three satsumas to school, it seems like a great idea until reality catches up with you and you realise you’ve been greedy. A summer orange makes this brutally clear as it’s often mealy, dry, and tough to peel. The whole thing just feels forced, because it is – it’s a fruit grown out of time. The same experience awaits if you buy a punnet of strawberries in winter: they look red enough, but the first bite reveals its hard unripened insides. You can shine an artificial light on a piece of fruit all you want, but nature knows you’re cheating.  As someone who enjoys perusing a full range of nut milks at the supermarket it feels a little hypocritical to say this, but sometimes I wish satsumas were only available when they’re actually in season. It would save me from dry and disappointing mouthfuls, and sharpen the pleasure of enjoying them only when they’re at their best. 

Right now, beautifully ripe citrus fruits are arriving in Britain by ship from Southern Europe, mostly from Spain, cradled carefully in cooled containers. I like to buy the satsumas that come in those little wooden boxes, still with a couple dark green leaves attached. My favourite thing to do is to put a satsuma in my pocket whenever I head out to seek out some winter light. I eat my mini orange as I walk, putting the peels back in my pocket – when I find them later they may have dried up, but they still carry a faint whiff of winter freshness. 

Lately I’ve been buying a lot of navel oranges too – they’re the ones that look like they have a belly button. They have softer and thinner peels that come away without much resistance, revealing a supremely juicy treat. I like to keep one on my desk all day until the sun starts to set, and as I eat it I’m reminded of a children’s book I saw once, about an orange that’s mistaken for an egg from the sun. As the juice runs down the back of my throat I think that sounds about right – it tastes the way the sun feels.