Every autumn, the clocks go back and the evenings close in. By late afternoon, the light is draining out of the sky, the temperature drops, and something shifts in the mood of the room. Conversations turn to the cold, the dark and the long months ahead.
It is a very human reaction. But what is actually happening in our minds when the days shorten, and how much of it comes from the dark itself, rather than from the story we tell ourselves about it? Let's look at both.
A conversation about the dark
Not long ago I found myself in a group of people who were all, quite happily, complaining. They hated the darker, shorter days. They hated winter. They hated the cold. One grumble seemed to give the next one permission.
Then they turned to me and asked what I did to combat SAD.
I told them the truth: I focus on what I can do. I can't change the length of the day, but I can jump and kick about in the fallen leaves. I can look for the dew on a spider's web, or the mist hanging low in the fields. I can take a breath of crisp, fresh autumn morning air. I can watch for the winter birds that visit, light a fire or some candles and enjoy the cosiness of it. And I can lower my expectations.
It struck me how rarely we ask that question. We tend to treat the dark months as something to endure, rather than something we can meet with a little curiosity.
What shorter days do to the brain
Let me be clear: the way we feel as the light fades is not imagined, and it is not weakness. There is real biology behind it.
Light sets the body's clock. Specialised cells in the retina detect light and send the message to a small region of the brain called the suprachiasmatic nucleus, our master body clock. It uses that signal to time our sleep, hormones, body temperature and alertness. Morning light is the strongest cue. When we wake in the dark, and then spend our days under indoor lighting that is far dimmer than even an overcast sky, the clock can drift out of step, and we feel groggy, flat and slow.
Darkness raises melatonin. Melatonin is the hormone that tells the body it is time to wind down. It is released as it gets dark, and in winter we are exposed to that darkness for longer. No wonder we want to curl up at five in the evening.
Less sunlight may mean less serotonin. Serotonin helps regulate mood, appetite and energy, and research suggests that its activity in the brain follows the seasons, tending to be lower in the darker months. This is one reason why low energy, low mood and cravings for comfort food and carbohydrates are so common in winter. Shorter days also mean less vitamin D, which is why UK health guidance suggests many people consider a supplement from autumn to spring. Food can help too, and I'll come back to that below.
Darkness shrinks our world. When it is dark and cold by tea time, we go out less, see fewer people and drift into staying in. Humans are wired for connection, and company helps calm the nervous system. With less of it, the mind can turn inward, become more watchful and more critical, and feelings of isolation can quietly grow.
It's also ancient. For most of human history, winter was a time to conserve energy. That pull to slow down, eat heartily and stay close to the fire is a very old instinct, not a flaw.
Seasonal affective disorder itself is a recognised form of depression that returns at the same time each year. If your low mood is persistent, is affecting your daily life, or feels more than a dip, please speak to your GP. Light therapy and talking therapies can make a real difference, and there is no need to struggle through alone.
Why telling yourself to "be positive" isn't enough
You might expect the answer to dark evenings to be a stack of positive affirmations: "I love winter. I love the dark." There is good evidence that positive thinking can support wellbeing, and what we focus on does become our version of reality.
But for many of us, it simply doesn't work. I know that I found it very hard to "fake it until I make it". If a statement isn't true for me, my mind rejects it, and the words feel empty.
For me, the reason is a value I hold very high: authenticity. If you share it, forcing yourself to say something you don't believe will only make you feel worse. I certainly don't claim to love the dark mornings. That would be incongruent, and I wouldn't believe myself.
So my answer to the group was not "I love winter". It was a list of small things that are genuinely, observably true: the dew on the web, the mist in the field, the warmth of the candle. I can say each of those from the heart. That is what makes them work. When we notice what is genuinely good, in small and honest ways, the mind begins to scan for more of it, and the habit grows from there.
The blanket we pull around ourselves
"It's dark in the mornings, and that makes me SAD" is a very powerful sentence, and not necessarily a helpful one. It puts the cause outside of us, in something we have no control over, and that leaves us passive. We can't change the weather or the seasons. The nights will draw in whether we like it or not. What we can influence is our response, and if we can choose to respond negatively, then we can also choose to respond differently.
There is a quieter side to this, too. Unhappiness doesn't always arrive like a storm. Sometimes it settles around us like a blanket on a cold morning: familiar, close to the skin and oddly hard to put down. The nervous system has a strong preference for what it knows, and even a heavy, uncomfortable feeling can be a known one. This isn't stubbornness. It's a survival response doing what it was built to do.
We can see it in the body: the hunched shoulders, the lowered head, the folded arms, the retreat into dark, heavy layers. And we can hear it in the group, where shared grumbling feels like connection, and yet leaves everyone holding the same weight a little tighter.
If this resonates, you might gently ask yourself:
• Am I describing this season as something that is happening to me?
• What does part of me believe I get from holding on to this feeling?
• If I loosened my grip a little, what would I like to move towards?
These aren't tests, and there's no need for perfect answers. They are simply invitations to notice that you are wearing the blanket, which is the first step to deciding whether you want to keep it on.
Focusing on what I can do
The dark isn't going anywhere, so I look for what is available to me within it. Here is what is on my list:
• Jump and kick about in fallen leaves. Movement and a little play shift our internal chemistry in a way that thinking alone cannot.
• Admire the colours of autumn. Once a year the trees put on a spectacular show, and the low sun plays beautifully across it.
• Notice the dew on a spider's web. Small details pull attention out of worry and into the present.
• See the mist hanging in the fields. The season has its own beauty, if I go out and look for it.
• Breathe in the crisp air of an autumn morning. Time outdoors in morning daylight also helps to anchor the body clock.
• Watch for the visiting winter birds. Something new arrives, just as something else departs.
• Make the evening cosy. A fire, candles and soft light signal to the nervous system that it is safe to rest.
• Lower my expectations. Not every dark evening needs to be productive. Slowing down, resting more and doing less is in tune with what the body is asking for at this time of year.
On the mornings when my alarm goes off in the dark, I have a quiet word with myself and choose to enjoy the dawn arriving and the birds singing. If it's raining, I find a moment to enjoy the sound of the rain.
Feed your inner light. As the evenings draw in, it helps to remember that most of the body's serotonin is made in the gut, by cells in the gut lining working alongside our microbes. Gut serotonin doesn't travel to the brain, but a well-nourished gut sends calming signals upward along the vagus nerve, and the brain makes its own serotonin from tryptophan, which comes from food. So this season, keep the plate warm and grounding. Eggs, oats, salmon, pumpkin seeds and chickpeas supply the building blocks. Leeks, onions, garlic and slightly green bananas feed your gut bacteria, while live yoghurt, kefir and sauerkraut add friendly bacteria of their own. Berries, walnuts and a square of dark chocolate offer gentle support. When the dark pulls us towards sugar, ultra-processed comfort food and an extra glass of wine, it's worth knowing that all three can upset the microbiome and dull the very signals we're trying to strengthen. Our gut needs feeding as much as we need the light.
None of this requires you to pretend. You don't have to love the cold. You only need to find the things that are genuinely there, and be willing to notice them. On top of that, a few other gentle supports can help:
• Get outside in daylight as early in the day as you can, even when it's grey.
• Choose people who help you feel safe and warm, and make a plan to see them before the dark closes in.
• Reduce what drains you, whether that's the news, social media or certain conversations.
• Lose yourself in something you love, such as a hobby or a creative project.
A closing thought
The evenings will keep drawing in, whatever we think of them. The shorter days do affect our minds, through light, hormones, energy and connection, and that deserves understanding and kindness rather than self-criticism.
But between the dark and our reaction to it, there is a small space where we can choose where to place our attention. So, this evening, what is one genuine thing you can notice, do or look forward to?
