The skull-numbing alarm rang out in the darkness. I fumbled for my phone: 8.21am. The rain pattered against my accommodation window, and I could hear gusts of wind blowing outside. It would be a soggy walk to my 9am lectures, and a cold one at that. It was peak January. Swiping snooze, I lay in bed, wishing very hard I could hibernate.
The high point of winter is always Christmas. The preceding three or four weeks are filled with Christmas markets, mulled wine, and mince pies. And then it crashes. Following New Year’s Day, there is not a hint of winter festivity in sight, while freezing weather stubbornly remains for the next two months. Is it any surprise that up to 10% of people living in the UK experience winter seasonal affective disorder (SAD)?
Indeed, SAD is a recognised mental health condition, defined by experiencing depressive episodes during certain seasons of the year. However, although winter depression is 30 times more common than summer depression, it is important to acknowledge that SAD is not confined to winter months. SAD is typically characterised by persistent feelings of sadness and emptiness. In the winter, it can present as oversleeping, overeating (with a particular inclination to carbohydrates), and social withdrawal. These elements of SAD might go unnoticed, though, as they are reflected within broader elements of culture. For example, hearty, more filling meals are associated with colder months, and lounging in bed for longer periods of time is more socially acceptable in the winter.
SAD is a multifactorial condition, with both genetic components and disruption to circadian rhythms, as a result of natural seasonal changes, thought to be potential causes. A circadian rhythm is the body’s biological clock, regulating a person’s sleeping and waking, as well as their metabolism and internal temperature. It makes sense that the changing seasons disrupt this. In the winter, it feels counterintuitive to wake up when it is still dark outside, and bizarre to leave the Rad Cam at 5pm to find out that night has already fallen.
One of the biggest struggles of winter is that outdoor activities, some of the usual remedies for low mood, must be squeezed into a very narrow eight-hour window of daylight. One could go running after dark, but this is not always safe, especially when alone. And on top of lectures, practical classes, and tutorials during term time, it is nearly impossible to fit in a 5k run with such limited daylight. Another important factor to consider is the weather. It doesn’t matter if there is still daylight, or if I have spare time, if it is pouring buckets and five degrees. Not much could convince me to put on a skort and play netball at that point. It appears that the UK population and I are in agreement, as it has been reported that two in five adults spend less than an hour a day outdoors. As a result of less outdoor-seeking behaviour and lower UV levels, the NHS recommends Vitamin D supplementation for everyone during winter and autumn months.
This year, the early weeks of March brought abnormally sunny weather. My friends and I ruthlessly capitalised on this, flocking to Trinity gardens and plotting our first Pimm’s of the year. Hilary term gave us a small, tantalising taste of what the oncoming term could offer: early morning rowing sessions with the sun reflecting off rippling water; days spent studying in college gardens; evenings topped off with cocktails on benches outside the King’s Arms. It sounds heavenly.
As spring firmly takes root and Trinity term looms, I envision myself reincarnated. Gone are the days of thick jumpers and jeans worn for the tenth time in a row. Instead, they are replaced by pretty tops and white linen trousers. Gone are the days of carb-loading on jacket potatoes and cheesy chips. Now there are only smoothie bowls and salad. The longer days and shorter nights represent a new start, a self-renaissance of sorts.
The ultimate conversation starter in primary school was a real antagoniser: “Which is better, winter or summer?” The winter faction would diligently argue their case: summer gets sweaty, sunburns are painful, and hot nights are a faff to sleep in. But I stand armed with my suncream and handheld fan. I’ll take summer any day.
The blaring alarm rings out once more. This time, the sun falls through the curtains into my bedroom: 8.21am. I’m awake and ready, it’s spring at last.
