The days are getting shorter and, honestly, more depressing. The final stretch of this yearly slog is only weeks away, yet I’m already wondering whether I’ll make it to the finish line in one piece. Autumn seemed to appear out of nowhere this year. Now the winter solstice looms on 21 December — an already dismal day made even bleaker by falling on a Sunday.

“Solstice” means “sun stands still”: the Sun’s path appears to pause for a few days before inching north again, marking the peak of winter. It sounds poetic, almost serene, but for someone like me it can feel anything but. This year has been one of the bad wobbles.

I belong to that unlucky club of people living with Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), a form of depression that follows a seasonal rhythm — often called “winter blues” because the symptoms intensify as the light dwindles. At least I’m in decent company: Adele, Ryan Reynolds, Jim Carrey, and Emma Thompson have all spoken openly about dealing with it.

The symptoms? A greatest-hits list of misery: persistent low mood, loss of interest, low energy, oversleeping, carb cravings, weight gain, fuzzy concentration, irritability, social withdrawal, and those heavy feelings of guilt or worthlessness. Over the past few weeks, I’ve ticked every single box.

Worst of all are the irrational thoughts that hitch a ride. These fixations burrow in and make themselves at home. In previous years, I’ve spiralled over a long-ago one-night stand, convinced I needed to confess it to my partner to find peace — thankfully a friend talked me down. Another winter I became obsessed with the idea that I had too much money and would have to explain myself to the taxman, despite everything being perfectly legitimate. This year, despite feeling physically fine, I can’t shake the fear that I’m harbouring a terminal illness. Seeing it written out looks absurd, but that’s the reality of it.

SAD likely stems from disruptions to the body’s internal clock and imbalances in serotonin and melatonin triggered by the lack of sunlight. It was formally named in 1984 by Dr. Norman Rosenthal and his team at the National Institute of Mental Health.

There’s no magic cure. You grit your teeth and get through it. It’s less “mind over matter” and more “matter over mind” — odd phrasing, but surprisingly accurate. What helps me most is staying occupied: researching, writing, watching TV, cleaning… anything that absorbs me. Eventually, after a few hours, I’ll notice I feel almost normal again. I recently read that building Lego can help too — its structure and focus promote mindfulness, which can ease anxiety and depressive symptoms.

The fear that you’re “cracking up” can be overwhelming the first time, especially if you don’t yet know what’s happening. But when it returns, you at least recognise the shape of it. You learn its rhythm. You remember it passes. And that alone is sometimes enough to help you hold on until the light returns.