What My Recovery Has Taught Me About Seasonal Depression
Personal Perspective: I plan to savor the simple blessings of the season.
Posted December 17, 2025 | Reviewed by Lybi Ma
Walking home from work yesterday, it was cold and dark at 5 pm. My house was bedecked with a Christmas tree in the window, and I paused to look at it, at the glowing lights and the front door with garlands. It looked so lovely.
And I thought, "I am depressed again."
I'm Dana, and I'm an alcoholic, and I struggle with depression . I drank because I was depressed. And I was depressed because I was drinking. This lovely dance went on for a long time, until I got sober more than a decade ago.
Depression still exists in my life, and I have come to realize that there are seasonal triggers that exacerbate it. I try to prepare, but depression likes to blanket preparedness and healthy perspectives in a mind-numbing sort of dread. It's hard to think straight with dread. Dread is pretty powerful stuff.
I entered the house, to the frenzied greetings of my two dogs, and sat on the couch. The dogs were thrilled, but I was glum. Our huge Christmas tree was cheerful and glowing, and the house was quiet and decorated within an inch of its life. All was merry and bright. Except me. I was neither merry nor bright. Not at all.
Depression is a diagnosis I deal with all year long. I have accepted this, with lots of help from my psychiatrist, some really awesome prescriptions, and a lot of healing spiritual work. But when depression shows up around the holidays, I get frustrated. I think, "It's the season of Big Happy Feelings! Why am I ruining this with doom and gloom?"
Depression doesn't work that way. It's not polite, and it really doesn't understand social cues. I can't plead for it to stay away in the month of December. I think depression loves hanging out at Christmas, like an unwanted family relative who overstays her welcome.
For example, depression hunkers down into nostalgia in a way that is much more bitter than sweet. Occasionally, I find myself remembering the days of drinking at Christmas time. My brain engages in a weird nostalgia dip where it imagines me sitting by the fire with a fancy cocktail that entails muddling and cranberries, and I sigh a little. I know that I won't actually drink, but still. My depressed brain really likes that image of me by the fire with that really complicated drink, and all this makes me grimace. And we don't even have a fireplace in the house.
Oh, and of course, there are the parties, the people-ing, and the family. As an introvert , this is exhausting. I am built for quiet connection and not small talk. The endless to-do list of shopping and decorating, and creating Big Happy Memories adds to my weariness.
It's a lot. My brain gets very still.
Every year I go through this, and every year it takes me a good week or two before I realize it. It's like depression keeps telling me I don't have depression. This, by the way, is exactly how alcoholism operates. It loves to tell me how I do not have this disease. It's tricky that way.
All of this makes my days seem much more dismal than what the Hallmark Channel is selling us. But last night, after some hours of sleeplessness , I wandered downstairs to the couch with two sleepy dogs and a cup of tea. Maybe it was the quiet house and the simple beauty of our Christmas tree, but I felt encouraged. And then I came up with a plan, which was created with the tools of my own recovery. It looks like this:
None of these will work perfectly. Depression will still want to hang out. But I plan to gently maneuver through this with grace and a deep-seated confidence that this too shall pass. And I am grateful for my sobriety, as always, for helping me along this road.
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Dana Bowman , who teaches English at Bethany College in Kansas, is the author of How to Be Perfect Like Me, Bottled, and Humble Pie.
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This article is part of the Bringwise Psychology Journal — daily insights on human behavior, mental health, and personal growth.