In a world where adults are expected to be focused, strong, and eternally rational, for some reason, it's not customary to talk about simple sources of warmth. My stuffed animal isn't childish. It's an anchor. It's a feeling of comfort, when the body finally breathes out, and the mind stops scrolling through to-do lists and worries.

We hug pillows, wrap ourselves in blankets, turn on white noise—and no one is surprised. But the moment you say, "I sleep with a stuffed animal," there are immediately those who raise eyebrows. I believe that adulthood is precisely about allowing yourself to do what makes you feel good, without asking permission from other people's expectations.

Sometimes that toy is the only warm touch in the quiet of the night. Sometimes it's a symbol of self-care. Sometimes it's just a habit, like a favorite cup or an old sweater. And that's enough.

I'm 50 years old. I know who I am. And if a stuffed animal helps me sleep more peacefully, then it's in the right place. Just like me.