When Seasons Change, Humans Change: A Reframing

I first noticed a change in my energy levels when I moved from Chicago to London, where I then lived for a handful of years. The late autumn would set in and I wouldn’t get depressed, necessarily, but I would lose all motivation to do anything away from hearth and home.

At the time, I figured I understood finally the meaning of seasonal affective disorder, or SAD.

I left London and moved back to the States, this time to Houston, where the seasons don’t bring nearly as much change in atmospheric conditions. What I’d called SAD disappeared for me.

Upon my return to Europe from Houston, though, the same turning inward, the same lack of get-out-there-and-do energy returned with the change of seasons from summer to autumn, lingering on into early spring.

The first year or two of it, I felt frustrated. Annoyed. Almost angry with myself.

I wanted to maintain the same life rhythm and schedule I’d had in all other seasons. That it took so much energy to force myself along even a somewhat-similar schedule as I’d have had even just a few weeks before the seasonal change took hold irritated me.

I began to dread the change of seasons from early to full-on autumn.

And then I reconsidered.

Nothing in nature—as far as I know—maintains the same pace and rhythm and schedule throughout the year.

Plants, insects, amphibians, and even mammals change their habits with the seasons. Leaves change colors and fall from tree branches while other plants change their flowering and leaf-generating efforts or even go dormant. Some animals and insects move into hibernation or diapause (slowing-down) modes, some cease mate-seeking behavior, and some migrate to other regions.

Even without calendars and clocks, other living things can sense the change in the seasons. In addition to the changes in behavior that all of us can observe, scientists have even explored the how-do-they-know question. A study on sheep showed that the shortening daylight prompted the pituitary gland to fluctuate the hormones it generates, changing the levels of hormones produced that affect hunger and sleep needs and patterns. When shorter days arrive, these hormonal changes explain why sheep become more sluggish and eat more.

A human is a mammalian animal. And though we’ve developed some nifty technology that can light and warm our spaces despite the dark and the cold—thereby making more continuity of activity possible despite the atmospheric changes—it seems unreasonable to assume that the seasons don’t affect us when they affect everything else.

We live in the atmosphere, after all. Even when we sometimes wish we did not.

Once I reframed my thinking—the change of seasons is a problem, the change or seasons is terrible, the change of seasons alters my rhythm of life and I do not like it—and reckoned with the reality that, as the line goes, for everything there is a season, I found myself far less frustrated. Far more accepting. Welcoming, even.

I even grew to somewhat anticipate what I’d repositioned as the “cozy season.”

As the early autumn days arrive—though before the season changes—I dash to get in last-minute activity with the pep I still have. This year, I ran several longstanding errands and went on a few hikes and threw myself into more outdoor social activity while the weather lasted. Further, I almost enter into “prepare the nest” mode during this period as well: I think through what sort of sweaters and blankets and new layers I may need before the dark and the cold arrive. I notice myself looking at recipes and musing about all the warm foods I’d like to eat, considering what I will cook once I spend more time at home. I pile more and different types of books onto my purchase list.

Once the cold-and-dark arrives, I feel prepared and accepting of the turning inward, the reflecting a bit more, the thinking back and forward—even when these reflections bring wisps of melancholy—because I do believe strongly that the unexamined life is, indeed, not worth living. This, I’ve decided, the season: I am doing it in the time for it. And that it isn’t such a bad thing to feel wistful and melancholic sometimes.

I also now feel very content leaning into my lower energy levels in these months, into feeling okay that I don’t have the same inspiration I did during the other seasons to get out into nature for an entire day’s exercise or activity, to jump into cultural events, and to participate in social gatherings. (Especially the larger gatherings and events. The low-key, relaxed, one-on-ones and real conversations work for me no matter the season.)

The reframing of hating the darker and colder seasons and feeling frustrated that they change my energy levels has evolved into a feeling of living in harmony with the seasons and with nature, in keeping with other living things and with the cosmos. I feel at peace.

Of course, never would I argue that a simple reframing could prevent all people from suffering emotional distress due to the darker and colder months. Some people really do fall into despair and depression. If you experience this or you know someone who does, getting support—and early—can help prevent serious spiraling each year. (Please do this and encourage people to do this, if you sense it happening.)

However, perhaps for many of us, an honest reframing of the situation would relieve some distress. Perhaps realizing that, despite our always-on culture and technological tools that mask seasonal atmospheric changes, nature affects the human animal just as it does other creatures would help us breathe, make adjustments, and even welcome a chance to change our rhythm, to downshift just a bit, to turn inward.