Autumn Blues and Befriending My Inner Bear

Practical and philosophical solutions to Seasonal Affective Disorder

It’s mid September and already I’m feeling the sudden reduction in light and warmth. I’m one of the unfortunate 5% of people who suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and for me it’s the early onset variety.

In a few weeks I’ll feel ambushed by the clocks turning back an hour. I can feel my body resisting the change — unhappy to be forced into a pattern that feels alien.

SAD is not fun. It took me decades to understand why I felt so awful in autumn and winter. Why I was an exhausted, mentally unstable, carb craving wraith of myself? Turns out that all along, the reason was the season.

SAD is a form of depression which happens mostly during the winter months when we are exposed to less daylight, and symptoms are very similar to other types of depression.

I liken myself to a hibernating bear — try and wake me and I’ll probably roll over and squash you under the weight of my misery and lethargy. Extra weight, mind you, from all the extra carbs I’ve been consuming.

So what helps?

Over the years, I’ve tried just about everything possible to help me get through the darker months. Some things have been really beneficial such as walking outdoors, bright light therapy, and various supplements — such as rhodiola and vitamin D.

Then, there are those times when other life events and stressors add their weight to my seasonal slump and I know that I need to use medication. I used to feel shame about this, but at these times, I just take the pills for a few months, feel better and wonder what all the resistance was about?

Taking an SSRI when needed doesn’t make any of us lesser human beings. If our brains are not making and utilising enough of the right neurotransmitters, then medication can make a world of difference. For some of us — myself included — it can be a literal life saver. I’ve been dangerously suicidal at more than one point in my life, and I know I have a responsibility to myself and those who love me, to stay away from the edge of the abyss.

However, the essential shift for me came when I realised that my body is only trying to do what our ancestors would have done, and animals already know how to do — adapt to the flow of the season.

Or lives are filled with artificial lights and busy schedules that don’t recognise our connection to the earth. We have created a world which demands that we ignore our natural biorhythms — where we are expected to keep going whatever the weather.

So I recognise that this is an interlude and not a good time for new growth. It’s a time for rest and conservation, tending to my body and its needs. I take a hot bath many afternoons as the light begins to fail, I wrap up with cosy blankets, and warm slippers while gathering books and inspiring podcasts to feed my soul for the upcoming winter. I light as many candles and fairy lights as I can find, and invite friends for uplifting conversations over comforting suppers and red wine.

Most importantly, I remind myself of these truths

This isn’t a time to be productive. Rather, this is the season for inward exploration; A time of digging deep into the darkness and of attentive listening in the cold, quiet underworld of my soul. This is the season of Yin.

It is a time for allowing the previous season’s growth to die back and breakdown, so as to fertilise the ground with rich goodness in preparation for the later promise of new growth. Perhaps there can be no new growth without first breaking down and fertilising the soil of our lives? I am learning to appreciate the scent of manure.

We don’t see what’s underneath because we are preoccupied with surface growth. We want the bright flowers and the juicy fruit, yet remain largely unaware of what’s taking place underneath to allow this abundance.

Maybe accepting this makes it easier to be with what feels like an uncomfortable experience? Seeing it as a season which has a beginning and an end? As all seasons change in harmony with the earth’s wisdom, so I am being invited to surrender to this time of quiet contemplation.

Can I trust that the fresh, green shoots of inspiration and activity will appear once again, in Spring?