Greg's Journal: For the Quiet Hours

Greg's Journal | Entry No. 5

People sometimes ask me what "For the Quiet Hours" means.

They're expecting me to explain a sleep spray. Instead, I usually end up talking about life.

Because the quiet hours have never really been about sleep. They're about what comes before sleep. They're about the moment when the world finally slows down.

I Used to Think Quiet Meant Boring

When I was eighteen years old, I joined the Marine Corps because I wanted stories.

I'd grown up listening to my dad and my uncles talk about the military. I wanted adventures of my own. I wanted to prove to myself I could do something difficult.

Quiet wasn't something I was looking for. Challenge was.

Boot camp wasn't easy, but I actually enjoyed it. I liked being pushed. I liked discovering what I was capable of.

The Marines taught me that you can keep going long after you think you've reached your limit. That lesson has stayed with me.

But the Marines also taught me something else. If you never recover, eventually even the strongest person wears down.

Back then I thought recovery was just something you did so you could get back to work. Now I understand it's much more than that.

Hospitals Never Really Sleep

When I became a nurse, my days and nights looked very different.

I worked twelve-hour night shifts. Sometimes three nights in a row. Sometimes more.

The ICU never stopped.

Ventilators beeped. Monitors alarmed. Families cried. Patients fought for another day.

Healthcare has a rhythm all its own. Even when the building is quiet, the work never is.

I learned that exhaustion changes people. It slows your thinking. It shortens your patience. It makes simple decisions feel harder than they should.

I also learned something more encouraging.

Well-rested people are different. They're more hopeful. More patient. More resilient. They smile more. They engage more. They recover better.

Those observations stayed with me long after I left the ICU.

Then I Became a Father

Nothing prepares you for twins.

If you've had twins, you already know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, imagine being joyfully exhausted for a couple of years.

Then imagine adding another child a few years later.

Sleep becomes something you appreciate in an entirely different way.

Some nights, our youngest still ends up asleep on my right arm. I don't sleep quite as well when he's there. But someday he'll stop climbing into our bed. And I know I'll probably miss it.

Parenthood has a way of teaching you that perfection isn't always the goal. Presence is.

Sometimes the best evenings aren't the ones where everything goes according to plan. They're the ones where everyone is simply together.

My Favorite Evenings

People assume my favorite place is the operating room. Or maybe the lavender field.

Truthfully, it's usually much simpler than that.

Dinner is over. The dishes are mostly done. We're playing cards around the table. Someone accuses someone else of cheating. August is asking for one more snack. The twins are talking over each other.

Eventually everyone gets baths or showers. Teeth get brushed. Lights begin turning off around the house. The day slowly winds itself down.

Nothing remarkable happened. Nobody won an award. Nobody changed the world.

But those are the moments I treasure most.

Because those are the quiet hours.

Why We Created Silent Night

When Marion began creating products for Bloomfield, she poured herself into every recipe. She built something beautiful.

I wanted to contribute something that reflected my own experience. Sleep seemed like the obvious place.

I've spent my career helping people through one of the most vulnerable experiences they'll ever have. I've watched anxiety disappear as people realized someone was there to care for them.

I began researching pillow sprays. One thing kept coming up. People loved the idea. They just didn't love products that smelled like perfume.

That made sense to me. When you're trying to rest, the last thing you need is something demanding your attention.

I wanted something subtle. Lavender. Chamomile. Just enough vetiver to add depth without overwhelming the blend. A little magnesium because I understood its role in relaxation and wanted the formula to reflect what people were already looking for in a nighttime ritual.

Not a fragrance that filled the room. Just a gentle signal. A reminder.

The day is finished. You can let go now.

Quiet Doesn't Mean Empty

Some people think quiet means nothing is happening.

I've come to believe the opposite. The quiet hours are often when the most important things happen.

It's when families reconnect. It's when gratitude replaces urgency. It's when tomorrow's worries lose some of their weight. It's when your mind finally has room to breathe.

Those moments don't usually make headlines. But they're the moments that shape a life.

What I Hope People Feel

People often ask me what Silent Night smells like. I have a hard time answering.

To me, it smells less like lavender than it does like a feeling.

Open windows. Fresh sheets. A cool breeze. A porch after sunset. The sound of birds settling into the trees. Knowing your family is safe inside. The satisfaction of honest work. The relief that tomorrow can wait until morning.

That's what I hope people experience. Not because of a bottle. Because of the routine that surrounds it.

If our products become a small part of someone's evening ritual, then we've accomplished exactly what we hoped to accomplish.

Before You Turn Out the Light

Life has taught me that strength isn't measured only by how hard you can push. It's also measured by whether you're wise enough to pause. To rest. To recover. To be grateful. To enjoy the people sitting around your table before everyone heads off to bed.

Those are the moments that become the memories.

Those are the moments we built Bloomfield around.

Those are the quiet hours.

And I hope you enjoy every one of them.

For the Quiet Hours,
Greg Wiggins, CRNA
Co-Founder, Bloomfield Schoolhouse Lavender