Brrrrrrrrr!! My Experience with Seasonal Effective Disorder

I'll never forget the first time I realized something was seriously off. It was mid-November, and I was sitting in my apartment at 4:30 PM, staring at the window as the sun was already setting. I hadn't moved from my couch in hours. My dog, Luna, was literally bringing me her leash, dropping it at my feet, then staring at me with those pleading eyes. And I just... couldn't. The thought of going outside felt impossible.

This wasn't just being tired or lazy. This was different. I'd been through tough times before, but this feeling was like someone had turned down the dimmer switch on my entire life. Getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain. Showering was an achievement. And the worst part? I couldn't even explain why.

Growing up in the Midwest, I was used to cold winters. But somewhere around my junior year of college, the winters started hitting different. As soon as the days got shorter and the temperatures dropped, I'd feel myself sinking. It was like clockwork – every year around October or November, I'd start feeling this overwhelming heaviness that I just couldn't shake.

By January, I was basically a shell of myself. I'd skip classes (or back then, now work meetings). I'd cancel plans with friends. I'd order delivery instead of going to the grocery store. My apartment was a mess, my sleep schedule was completely backwards, and I was living in the same hoodie for days at a time. My mom would call and I could hear the concern in her voice, but I didn't know how to tell her that I felt like I was moving through quicksand every single day.

The thing that really scared me was how normal it started to feel. Like, "Oh, it's winter, so of course I'm miserable." I thought everyone felt this way when it got cold and dark. Spoiler alert: they don't.

After a particularly rough week where I called in sick to work three days in a row (and wasn't actually physically sick), I finally made an appointment with a therapist. I remember sitting in her office, trying to explain that I wasn't just sad – I was exhausted, unmotivated, hopeless, and couldn't remember the last time I'd felt like myself.

She asked me a bunch of questions about when it started, how long it lasted, and whether this pattern repeated every year. When she mentioned Seasonal Affective Disorder (yes, the acronym is literally SAD, which feels a little on the nose), something clicked. Finally, there was a name for what I was experiencing. It wasn't all in my head. It was a real thing that happened to real people.

But here's the kicker – when she suggested I start getting outside more, especially in the morning light, even when it was freezing, I literally laughed. Like, actually laughed in her face. "You want me to go OUTSIDE? In CHICAGO? In WINTER? When it's like 20 degrees and dark by 5 PM?"

She just smiled and said, "I know it sounds counterintuitive. But trust me on this one."

I won't lie – the first few times were absolutely brutal. But I made a deal with myself: I'd get the proper gear (because no one should suffer unnecessarily), and I'd commit to one week of daily walks with Luna. Just one week.

So I invested in actual winter gear – not just my ratty college parka, but like, real stuff. A warm coat, waterproof boots, gloves that actually kept my hands warm, a hat that covered my ears. Game changer.

That first morning walk was... weird. It was 25 degrees, the sun was barely up, and I felt ridiculous. But Luna was SO HAPPY. And about ten minutes in, something shifted. My brain felt a little clearer. My body felt more awake. I noticed things – the way the frost looked on the trees, another person walking their dog who gave me that knowing nod of solidarity.

I kept it up. Some days it was only 15 minutes. Some days I managed 30 or 40. There were definitely mornings when I wanted to give up, but having Luna depending on me made it easier. (Thanks, sweet Luna girl.)

I'm not going to tell you it was a miracle cure, because that's not how mental health works. But over the next few weeks, I noticed real changes. I had more energy. My mood was more stable. I was sleeping better at night instead of taking three-hour naps in the afternoon. I actually wanted to see my friends again.

The walks became my non-negotiable part of the day. Even on the days when it was snowing or the windchill was brutal, I'd bundle up and go. Some days I'd listen to podcasts, some days I'd call a friend, some days I'd just be with my thoughts and Luna's jingling tags.

By February – usually my absolute worst month – I was still struggling, but I was functioning. I was going to work. I was taking care of myself. I wasn't thriving, exactly, but I wasn't drowning either.

Here's the thing I wish someone had told me earlier: If the changing seasons mess with your mental health, that's real and valid. It's not weakness, it's not laziness, and it's not something you just need to "get over."

Also? Sometimes the solutions that sound the most ridiculous are the ones that actually help. Getting outside in the winter seemed absurd to me. It felt like the exact opposite of what my body wanted (which was to hibernate under blankets until April). But my body and my brain needed different things, and the morning light exposure – even on cloudy days – made a difference.

This winter has been a bit better.

If you're reading this and thinking, "Wow, this sounds like me," talk to someone. A therapist, a doctor, someone who can help you figure out what's going on. And if they suggest something that sounds weird or uncomfortable (like going outside when it's freezing), maybe give it a shot. You might be surprised.

And hey, if you need motivation, get a dog. Luna didn't cure my SAD, but she definitely saved me from giving up on myself during the hardest months. Plus, she's really cute, which helps.

Be gentle with yourself this winter. You're doing better than you think.

Kayla is in her early twenties and resides in Chicago.