Trying to Sleep During a Wind Storm (and Why It’s Extra Challenging for Nevada)

There are two kinds of people in the world:
Those who can sleep through a wind storm…

and those who spend the entire night convinced the house is about to pack up and move on without them.

I am the second kind.

Trying to sleep during a wind storm for my area  in Nevada is not sleeping. It’s lying very still while your brain conducts a full emergency preparedness drill at 2:17 a.m.

Wind Here: Quietly Unhinged

The  area where I live doesn’t always look windy. That’s how it gets you.

On a normal day, things seem calm enough. But when storms roll through, the wind can ramp up fast. Gusts of 45–60 mph aren’t unusual during strong systems, and during bigger events, winds can push into the 60–70 mph range.

Which means when the wind hits at night, it doesn’t politely announce itself. It shows up like it has a personal vendetta.

The Soundtrack of a Windy Night
The wind doesn’t just blow.
It howls.
It slams.
It tests every loose object you forgot to secure earlier that day.

Somewhere outside, a tree branch scrapes the house like it’s politely asking to come in. A mysterious metal object you don’t remember owning bangs rhythmically—just irregular enough to keep you awake. And every few minutes there’s a gust so strong your brain jumps straight to structural failure.

You pull the blankets up higher, as if cotton and optimism could protect you from 60-mile-per-hour gusts. Your eyes are closed, but your ears are working overtime.

You hear everything. The fence. The gutters. That one thud that makes you stare at the ceiling and think, Well. This is how it ends. You consider getting up to check outside—but that would require leaving the bed. And if something is wrong, you’d rather find out in the daylight with your tea and emotional support.

Instead, you lie there making mental notes:
Tomorrow: check the roof.
Tomorrow: check the animals.
Tomorrow: identify whatever keeps slamming into the side of the house.
Tomorrow: forgive the wind. Or don’t.

Just as you start to drift off, the wind hits the house sideways and you bolt awake, heart racing, fully prepared to grab nothing and panic efficiently.

Eventually—somewhere between “Is that thunder?” and “I swear the house just moved”—you fall asleep. Not because the wind stopped, but because your body simply gives up.

Morning arrives calm and almost offensive. The sky is blue. Everything is still standing. Nothing blew away. The wind, apparently satisfied with its performance, has moved on.
You, however, are exhausted.

Trying to sleep during a wind storm for my area isn’t about rest.
It’s about endurance.
And technically… you made it