Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Moving In

Episode Date: September 7, 2026

Our story tonight is called Moving In, and it’s a story about a long drive in a packed car at the beginning of freshman year. It’s also about paper cups of coffee, new towels and beloved memories, turning leaves on the commons and the tender adventure of growing up and letting go. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving the True and Faithful Pet Rescue Mission. Making a difference in the lives of these resilient, loving, and devoted senior dogs and giving them the forever homes they deserve. Whether it's a hobby, a passion, or a long-held idea, Shopify can help you bring it to life. Start with a free trial at shopify.com/nothingmuch Get 15% off OneSkin with the code NOTHINGMUCH at oneskin.co/NOTHINGMUCH  #oneskinpod Subscribe to our ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Premium channel⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. The first month is on us. 💙 ⁠⁠Join⁠⁠⁠⁠ the Village of Nothing Much App! Order Kathryn’s new book ⁠⁠⁠⁠On the Street Where You Live⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠NMH Merch, Autographed Books and More!⁠⁠⁠⁠ Listen to our daytime show ⁠⁠⁠⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠Sit Meditation with Kathryn⁠⁠⁠⁠ Follow us on ⁠⁠⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠⁠⁠ Visit ⁠⁠⁠⁠Nothing Much Happens⁠⁠⁠⁠ for more Village fun! Sign up for our Newsletter ⁠⁠⁠⁠here⁠⁠⁠⁠ to be in the know! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Get more Nothing Much Happens with bonus episodes, extra long stories, and ad-free listening, all while supporting the show you love. Subscribe now. When I started, Nothing Much Happens, I was thinking about stories, not e-commerce, but as the business crew, we needed a storefront, and Shopify made that part much easier. It's simple to set up. The design tools help you build a beautiful store without being a web design. and ShopPay makes checkout easy for customers. I really like that Shopify lets me stay focused on my creative work while giving us the tools we need to actually run the business. If you're ready to hear the chiching of your first sale today,

head over to Shopify.com slash nothing much to start your free trial today. That's right, start your free trial at Shopify.com slash nothing much. That's Shopify.com slash nothing much. Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens.

Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week. And this week we are giving to the true and faithful pet rescue mission, making a difference in the lives of resilient, loving, and devoted senior dogs and giving them the forever homes they deserve. Learn more about them in our show notes. for ad-free, bonus content, or to join the virtual village through our app. Go to Nothing Much Happens.com.

I lead a weekly live creative writing group through the app called the Writers' Room. If you've been looking for a sign to start or return to writing, maybe this is it. When you climb into bed, your mind relieved of its duties for the day, can wander off and keep you up or even wake you up. It needs a bit of direction, a sort of scaffolding to build sleep on top of. And that's how bedtime stories work. I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. All you have to do is listen.

Some folks just need one story. Others need them to play all night long. Any way that it works for you is good. Our story tonight is called Moving In. And it's a story about a long drive in a packed car at the beginning of freshman year. It's also about paper cups of coffee, new towels and beloved memories. turning leaves on the commons, and the tender adventure of growing up and letting go. I've tried enough skin care at this point to know that a lot of it makes very big promises,

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Switch off your light. Set down anything you were looking at or working on. You have looked at a screen for the last time today. Snuggle down into your sheets and let every part of your body soften and soften and relax. If you tend to clench your jaw, try resting the tip of your tongue where your upper teeth meet the gums on the inside. But first, take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice. One more. Breathe in. And out. Good. Moving in. Station wagon was packed. and it had been unpacked and repacked twice already.

We'd been putting things together all summer, a box of books here, a desk lamp and shower caddy there. And it hadn't seemed like much stuff when it came in a piece at a time. But as we began to wedge things into the back of the wagon, All of it seemed to have multiplied while we weren't looking. Sheets and comforter, pillows and a new book bag, laundry baskets full of clean folded clothes, a bundle of hangers, shower slippers, and toiletries,

and favorite snacks to see her through study sessions. We fussed over how to arrange it all, doing our best to leave no hoodie or extension cord behind, though she was so much less worried about it all than we were, which, we supposed, was exactly how it should be. She was looking ahead to a year of adventure, new friends, new experiences. We were holding on to the rhythms of the life we'd lived together since we brought her home from the hospital in her car seat.

It made making sure she had the shampoo she liked feel very important to us, less so to her. By mid-morning, only about an hour after we'd hoped to be on the road. We were finally pulling out of the driveway. She was in the middle of the back seat, buckled in between a fluffy new comforter and an awkward stack of running shoes,

a hamper full of bath towels, and a small trash can, currently storing a surge protector, her hairbrush, and four kinds of chargers. A neighbor who had babysat for her when she was little, stopped by for a good luck hug, and handed over a tray of coffee cups from the cafe, and a bag of rolls and muffins from the bakery.

So we each had a warm cup in hand as we made our way through the streets of our neighborhood. I was thinking about her riding her bike, up and down these familiar blocks, her in her Halloween costume, running back to me on the sidewalk, between each front porch, to tell me what treat she'd gotten. Her, running over the curb at the corner while she was learning to drive, I turned my face to the window and turned. tried to take a deep breath, reminding myself that she would be home for Thanksgiving.

And never more than a few hours away, she reached her hand up from the back seat and squeezed my shoulder, and I leaned one damp cheek against it. She was good like that. even so young still she could be with me, with us, with her friends, the kids she coached in track and just let us feel how we felt

not try to jostle us out of it before we were ready just stay a moment with us I patted her hand with mine and sat up a bit taller in the passenger seat, rolled my shoulders back and sniffed. Sure, those weren't the last tears of the day. Still, I felt a little lighter for shedding them,

for remembering how proud I was of her. The leaves at the tops of the trees along the highway were turning. And when we stopped for gas an hour out of town, and I stepped out of the car to stretch my legs, the breeze was cool and fresh. We wandered into the shop, and I laughed at myself, remembering the road trips when she was little,

when we'd had to negotiate in these moments. one thing. She could get one thing. Not a drink and a candy bar. Not gum and chips, just one. Now I was offering her everything I saw. Was she hungry? Was she thirsty? I asked. Did she need one of these keychains with her initial on it? They have granola bars, I told her. I'm good, she said again and again. Yes, you are, I affirmed, and dropped an armful of snacks and sodas on the counter anyway. Back on the road, creeping closer to college.

I heard her breath get slow and deep and opened the visor mirror to peek into the backseat. She was asleep. Her head tipped onto the stack of bath towels. I'd washed and folded the day before. I wanted them to at least start out, smelling like home. In the front seat, we whispered about her. Held hands over the cold coffee cups in the concert.

orientation is tomorrow. She needs to be at the library by nine. Yes, dear, you have mentioned that a few times. I know it just helps me to talk through it. When we got off the expressway, I nudged her knee and teased her with the line I used to say to her, when she was a kid. Put your shoes on, baby.

We're at Grandma's house. She smiled at me, with her eyes still shut. She hadn't decided on a major yet, hadn't even decided if she wanted to try out for the track team or just run for fun when she had the time. I wondered if it was as clear to her

as it was to us that the world was her oyster, that all roads lay open before her, and that she could excel in and enjoy so many things. I tried to remember what I had understood about my own life when I was in the same spot. I think I only saw a few feet in front of me, only to the end of the semester,

the auditions for the spring show, the summer job back home, that short-sightedness had had me frequently turning too far in one direction, then over-correcting in the other. It had taken a while to land my feet on a path that felt right. How would it be for her?

In the parking lot of her dorm, there were dozens of the same scene playing out with slightly different components. Here with siblings, here with a grandparent, or a family friend, there with fancier furniture, or fewer boxes.

We all trumped up the stairs or rode the elevators, carried in cartons and attempted to help make up beds. Eventually, there was nothing left to do. Roommates had been met. Bookshelves stocked, desks moved about for maximum space as we walked back out to the station wagon, with her between us, arms over each other's shoulders. I saw the beautiful commons, noticed the old brick buildings, the archways and worn iron benches, and remembered that this was exciting and about her.

So when I caught her up for one last hug, there was a genuine smile on my face. I can't wait to see. I whispered in her ear, what you'll do next. Moving in, the station wagon was packed, and it had been unpacked

and repacked twice already. We'd been putting things together all summer, a box of books here. a desk lamp, and shower caddy there. And it hadn't seemed like much stuff when it came in a piece at a time. As we began to wedge things into the back of the wagon,

all of it seemed to have multiplied. While we weren't looking, sheets and comforter, pillows and a new book bag, laundry baskets, full of clean folded clothes, a bundle of hangers, shower slippers and toiletries and her favorite snacks to see her through study sessions. we fussed over how to arrange it all, doing our best, to leave no hoodie or extension cord behind. She was so much less worried about it all than we were, which, we supposed, was exactly how it should be. she was looking ahead. To a year of adventure, new friends, new experiences.

We were holding on to the rhythms of the life we'd lived together since we brought her home from the hospital in her car seat. It made making sure she had the shampoo, she liked. Feel very important to us, less so to her. By mid-morning, only about an hour

after we'd hoped to be on the road. We were finally pulling out of the driveway. She was in the middle of the backseat, buckled in between a fluffy new comforter and an awkward stack of running shoes, a hamper full of bath towels, and a small trash can,

currently holding a surge protector, her hairbrush, and four kinds of chargers, a neighbor who had babysat for her, when she was little. Stopped by for a good luck hug and handed over a tray of coffees from the cafe and a bag of rolls and muffins from the bakery.

So we each had a warm cup in hand as we made our way through the streets of our neighborhood. I was thinking about her, riding her bike up and down these familiar blocks, her in her Halloween costume, coming back to me on the sidewalk,

between each front porch, to tell me, me what treat she'd gotten. Her running over the curb at the corner while she was learning to drive. I turned my face to the window and tried to take a deep breath, reminding myself that she would be home for Thanksgiving. And never more than a few hours away. way. She reached her hand up from the back seat and squeezed my shoulder, and I leaned one damp cheek against it. She was good like that. Even so young still, she could be with me, with us, with her friends, and the kids she coached.

in track and just let us feel how we felt, not try to jostle us out of it before we were ready, just stay a moment with us. I patted her hand with mine and sat up a bit taller in the passenger seat, rolled my shoulders back, and sniffed. Sure that those weren't the last tears of the day. Still, I felt a little lighter for shedding them, for remembering how proud I was of her. The leaves at the tops of the trees Along the highway Were turning And when we stopped for gas

An hour out of town And I stepped out of the car To stretch my legs The breeze was cool and fresh We wandered into the shop And I laughed at myself Remembering the road trips when she was little, when we'd had to negotiate in these moments.

One thing. She could get one thing. Not a drink and a candy bar. Not gum and chips. Just one. Now I was offering her everything I saw. Was she hungry?

Was she thirsty? I asked. Did she need one of these keychains with her initial on it? They have granola bars. I told her. I'm good, she said, again and again.

Yes, you are. I affirmed, and dropped an armful of snacks and sodas on the counter anyway. Back on the road and creeping closer to college. I heard her breath get slow and deep, and I opened the visor mirror to peek into the backseat. She was asleep. Her head tipped onto the stack of bath towels. I'd washed and folded the day before. I wanted them to at least start out, smelling like home.

In the front seat, we whispered about her and held hands over the cold coffee cups in the console. Orientation is tomorrow. She needs to be at the library by nine. Yes, my dear. You have mentioned that a few times. I know. It just helps me to talk through it. When we got off the expressway,

I nudged her knee and teased her with a line I used to say to her when she was a kid. Put your shoes on, baby. We are at Grandma's house. She smiled at me with her eyes still shut. She hadn't decided on a major yet. Hadn't even decided if she wanted to try out for the track team or just run for fun when she had the time. I wondered if it was as clear to her as it was to us that the world was her oyster, that all roads lay open before her, and that she could excel in and enjoy.

So many things I tried to remember what I had understood about my own life. when I was in the same spot. I think I only saw a few feet in front of me, only to the end of the semester, the auditions for the spring show, the summer job back home. The short-sightedness had had me frequently turning,

too far in one direction, than over-correcting in the other. It had taken a while to land my feet on a path that felt right. How would it be for her? In the parking lot of her dorm, there were dozens of the same scene playing out with slightly different components here with siblings. Here with a grandparent or a family friend,

there with fancier furniture, or fewer boxes. We all tromped up the stairs, erode the elevators, carried in cartons, and attempted to make up beds. Eventually, there was nothing left to do. Roommates had been met, bookshelves stocked, desks, moved about for maximum space. As we walked back out to the station wagon with her between us, our arms over each other's shoulders, I saw the beautiful commons, noticed the old brick buildings, the archways,

and worn iron benches and remembered that this was exciting and about her. So when I caught her up for one last hug there was a genuine smile

on my face. I can't wait to see I whispered in her ear What you'll do next Sweet dreams