It is mid-February in my 3rd year in Washington and a taunting false spring has been rearing its head the past couple of days. The last few months it has poured rain, dropped below freezing, and the sun has gone to bed before 5 pm, often before I have even left work.
I love Washington, I have wanted to live here almost my whole life. But here, right now, in February, I am sulking.
I have struggled with seasonal depression since I was in high school. Short, cold days, grey skies, a general feeling of aimlessness and malaise. People in Seattle celebrate the end of summer more enthusiastically than I can understand. For me, the summers aren’t hot enough to rejoice in the shortening of daylight and colder temperatures. Fleeting fall colors don’t inspire me enough to drum up enthusiasm for the slog of November turning into December, January lagging into February, and February reluctantly releasing us into March.
There is some masochism to this city I think. A commitment to grey months. A stubborn refusal to use an umbrella when it rains. Walking around for months soaked to the bone with rainwater and seasonal depression. But still, we persevere.
How do we do it? Personally, I pour myself into work, avoid socializing, and make sure to set time aside every day to feel sorry for myself. I don’t rest when I need it, I’m extra hard on myself, and I always make sure to hold myself to the same expectations I do the rest of the year. I reject nature’s slow winter rhythm in favor of the capitalist grind, I extend grace and kindness to others but not myself, and I remind myself regularly that my worth comes from what I can produce, nothing else.
Then after a few weeks, once it’s all pent up and I’m exhausted, I pull myself out of bed at night because I ironically cannot sleep, and I sit at my journal — humbly, gently, tiredly trying to unlearn it all.
Then I wake up again, clock in for work, and continue to white-knuckle my way through the season, hoping I will somehow feel different about it tomorrow. Somehow, I never do.
Right now is a perfect time to read more books, which I will also not do. It’s an even better time to give up on your New Year’s resolution, which I have already done. And not to mention, it’s a perfect time to give up on dry January, which I didn’t even bother starting.
What I have done though is bake a batch of soft pretzels, viciously kneading the dough by hand because I sold my KitchenAid mixer months ago. September me forgot how necessary baking becomes in the throws of seasonal depression. Watching my friends eat them felt like a summer afternoon in the park — their laughter felt like watching live music outside on days when the sun doesn’t set till nine.
Maybe some of my frustration is that joy in the summer comes easily to me. It is abundant in sunshine, days by the river, picnics in the grass, and ultimate frisbee games. Joy in the winter is softer and more subtle, harder to find and so easily overlooked. Summer simply gives me what I want, while winter demands patience and perspective to reap its rewards. Or, pockets deep enough to ski.
Sometimes on my days off, I set my alarm early, denouncing the rhythm of the world — if the sun won’t get up, then I will!
But other days I don’t set one at all. I sleep past the sun’s rise, feeling resentful for the days it lagged behind me, as if I have been wronged by a friend that did not show up when they said they would. Like if you’re going to get up so late and hide behind the clouds all day, then I don’t want to hang out at all. And so I pull my shades down and go back to sleep.
At the coffee shop I work at, coworkers and customers alike lament over the weather, it’s our favorite topic. One time, a regular there told me that I am like spring, which has quickly became one of my favorite compliments I’ve gotten.
My heart is rebirths, fresh starts, and pink flowers. Even my fashion choices would agree. The prominent color in my closet is pink, followed closely by yellow. I reject blue in my wardrobe the same way I reject the blues of the winter: they simply do not complement who I am. I am not one for patience or hibernation. I want color and warmth, change and growth.
There is a walk I take crossing Capitol Hill almost every day, from my house on North Boylston to my partner’s apartment 0.6 miles away on Belmont. Each time I have taken it recently, there are more buds on the flower bushes and more green things sprouting out of the ground. The truth is that never once has winter lasted forever, no matter how much I think it will every single time.
I envy those who are good at rest and cocooning, those who find life in the most barren season of the year. But for now, still, I just survive the winters. I impatiently await the return of the flowers. I grumble until the gloom relents and the sun finally stays out till late into the evening.
I have no real advice to cure the winter blues. Stay active, meditate, eat healthy foods, be social, and then be kind to yourself when you do none of those things.
I admire those that thrive through the winter, but the truth is that for many of us, it just sucks. It’s hard. It’s long. It’s okay.
Take care of yourself, and I will see you all in March.