As the cold weather approaches, so does something quieter, heavier, and far more intimate than snow: seasonal depression. I’ve been speaking about it more lately—with clients, friends, colleagues, even strangers in passing—and I’m noticing a pattern. The older we get, the more this time of year seems to affect us. It’s almost universal. A collective sigh. A shared ache. And yet, when I sit with it long enough, I find myself asking: What is it about getting older that makes this season so much harder? What shifts inside of us as we age that changes the way winter feels?
Because it isn’t just “the cold.” It isn’t just “the darkness.” It isn’t just “the lack of sun.” It’s something deeper—psychological, developmental, and personal—woven into the fabric of what it means to grow up.
We think about going out and suddenly the equation feels heavier. It’s not just, Should I go? It becomes: Do I have the energy? Do I want to clean off the car? Will the snow ruin my outfit? How many layers do I need? Will this feel worth it?
What once felt like adventure now feels like inconvenience. What once was a moment of spontaneous joy now becomes a logistical task list. There’s the slush. The boots. The cold air piercing your face. The sheer effort of existing outside your door.
And the sun—our quiet companion—feels missing. Vitamin D dips, the early sunsets steal our evenings, and the city itself feels like it’s running on low battery. Yet somehow, even in these conditions, we still crave more. More connection. More stimulation. More moments of levity. More reminders that we’re alive.
The other day I caught myself craving a full, indulgent “nothing day.” A day where I would stay in bed with a book, sleep whenever my body asked, maybe paint, watch TV, eat comforting food, and let the world move without me. The idea itself felt warm. Necessary. Past due. But when the opportunity actually came…I couldn’t take it. It felt like a waste of a Sunday. And yet, the alternative—going out, doing things, being social—was its own kind of exhaustion. A different kind of depletion.
And then my mind wandered to the kids in my life—my nieces, nephews, the small humans who manage to find thrill in the simplest things. I watch them play outside in the cold and I look back at my own childhood. I didn’t care how frozen my fingers were. I didn’t care that my socks were soaked through. I didn’t care how long it took to get anywhere. I didn’t hesitate to run outside, build something, chase something, laugh at something. I vividly remember one winter walking to school with snow past my kneecaps. It didn’t matter. I still went. The world still felt big. Alive. Interesting.
So I think again: What changed? What is the difference between then and now?
It’s the hassle. The mental load. The responsibility.
As children, we were never meant to care about those details. They were invisible to us. Someone else was cleaning the car, choosing the boots, tracking the time, managing the route. Our only job was to exist—and exist fully.
Our world was small, and it was meant to be small. Developmentally, emotionally, psychologically. Kids have constraints, but they also have freedom—the freedom to be present, to be absorbed by the now, to prioritize play over productivity.
Even as teenagers, we were not meant to carry the weight of adulthood. We were not juggling calendars, emotional labour, finances, deadlines, identities, relationships, careers. We were not yet living with the accumulated experiences, disappointments, griefs, or lessons that shape adulthood.
And yet, as adults, we are expected to hold everything. The responsibilities. The timelines. The silent pressures. The consequences. The mental load that no one sees but we never stop carrying. We are responsible for ourselves in a way that is relentless, precise, and unskippable.
So when winter arrives, it isn’t just the cold. It is the cumulative noise in our minds. The exhaustion that sits in our bones. The endlessness of tasks. The need to “be on.” The subtle grief of realizing that we no longer move through the world with the carefree rhythm of our younger selves.
But here’s the real psychological point:
The exhaustion we feel now is not proof of weakness. It is proof of awareness.
It is proof of growth.
It is proof that our world is bigger now, layered, textured, and demanding.
And yet, deep inside us, we still crave what our inner child knew instinctively:
Play. Rest. Spontaneity. Joy without justification. Time without productivity. Presence without pressure.
Children do not have it all figured out—they can’t. They haven’t lived long enough. But what they do have is something we slowly lose: an unfiltered lens. A clarity that comes without the fog of stress, responsibility, and existential burnout. They know how to immerse themselves in the moment. They know how to find meaning in simplicity. They know how to choose joy even when the weather is inconvenient.
And maybe that is why seasonal depression feels heavier as we age. Because winter strips away the distractions. It forces us inward. It magnifies what we avoid. It makes the mind louder. It brings the inner child to the surface—the one who remembers what it felt like to play, to rest, to be unburdened. But we don’t let ourselves follow that instinct anymore.
We call rest “wasted time.”
We call slowness “unproductive.”
We call stillness “laziness.”
We call joy “immature.”
We call wanting comfort “weakness.”
Adulthood whispers these lies so quietly we barely notice them.
But the truth is:
Maybe winter isn’t here to break us. Maybe it’s here to return us to ourselves.
Maybe the season that takes away the sun is actually the season that asks us to create our own warmth.
Maybe the lack of energy is a signal—an invitation to rest, not a failure to push harder.
Maybe the heaviness is not personal weakness but the natural rhythm of a human being responding to a darker environment.
Maybe the exhaustion is not a flaw but evidence that we care, we try, we give, and we keep showing up.
And maybe—just maybe—the part of us that wants to hide under blankets for a day isn’t lazy. It’s wise. It remembers something we’ve forgotten.
So this winter, I’m trying something new: paying attention to that younger version of me. The one who didn’t overthink joy. The one who didn’t calculate effort versus outcome. The one who understood that play was necessary, not optional.
I’m practicing gentleness.
I’m practicing slowness.
I’m practicing the art of choosing what feels nourishing rather than what looks productive.
I’m practicing listening—to my body, my mind, my rhythms.
I’m practicing being human, not perfect.
Because maybe the goal isn’t to chase the summer version of ourselves.
Maybe it’s to allow our winter self to exist without shame, without apology, without fear.
And in doing so, we return—to awareness, to truth, to softness, to self.
