Insight: Living with Seasonal Depression as a deaf person (BSL)

Every year, as autumn slips into winter, I see people joke about being “sad because it’s cold” or “just hating the dark.” I laugh along sometimes —  but behind that laugh I do wonder if they knew the truth about how winter affects me.

Looking back it was actually during my years at University when I became aware of how winter shapes not only my body but my mind. I visited my doctor at one point mid winter, convinced something was wrong with me, only to be told ‘maybe you have SAD?’

I looked it up on line – seasonal affective disorder – and sure enough the symptoms fitted what I was experiencing. An overwhelming, bone aching sadness that comes over me like a heavy blanket around late October, early November. Lethargy, low mood, anxiety, cravings for sweets, – I had all those things.

I remember that first December when I was feeling incredibly depressed trying to explain to one of my closest deaf friends how I was feeling. She just didn’t get it. Why would I be depressed? Everything was going well in my life. But it was as though someone had turned the lights off inside my head. Everything felt different.

My hearing parents weren’t overly sympathetic either. They brushed off the doctors diagnosis and said I was probably overworked or spending too much time alone thinking about it all.

I hadn’t realised just how misunderstood seasonal depression is. So today – five years after my first diagnosis – I want to peel back the curtain a little and talk about what it actually feels like, how it shows up in my life, and how I’ve learned to manage it with care, honesty, and a support network I trust.

There are two big myths that are really not helpful.

Myth #1: “Seasonal depression is just the winter blues.” If only.
One of the most frustrating myths is the assumption that seasonal depression is simply a case of mild grumpiness. People assume it means I’m annoyed by the cold or miss the sunshine. And while those things might be true, that’s not the whole story.

For me, winter depression feels like someone turned my world upside down. Things feel wrong, I feel off, tasks feel hard. I feel heavy, dark and gloomy. Even activities I normally love — reading, cooking, chatting with friends — feel like I’m efforting when I do them. It’s like something is pulling me downwards.

It’s not about being dramatic, and it’s not about refusing to “cheer up.” It’s a real, physiological shift that happens without my control.

Myth #2: “If you stay busy, you won’t feel it.”

I believed this one for years, mostly out of fear. If I kept working hard or kept busy socialising then surely the winter fog wouldn’t catch me(!)  I would organise festive quiz nights to distract me or winter outings as ‘something to look forward to.’ But it always found me. And when it hit, it hit harder because I was exhausted from trying to outrun it.

As a deaf person, staying “busy” often means putting extra effort into communication with other students at Uni, with work colleagues and life in general. The myth that nonstop activity can cure something rooted in biology and environment is damaging, because it pressures people to push past their limits instead of listening to their needs.

Some people assume seasonal depression looks the same for everyone. For me, it tends to unfold in patterns:

My sleep shifts first. I either sleep too much or not well at all. It’s like my body loses track of its internal clock once sunset creeps earlier.

My productivity flatlines. Not because I don’t want to work, but because it feels like trying to think through syrup. I get slower at meeting deadlines and I’m less enthusiastic about suggesting new things.

I withdraw. Not dramatically — I just respond slower, cancel more often, or feel overwhelmed by simple tasks.

My senses feel muted. This is hard to describe. Being deaf already means I view the world visually, but in winter, even my visual world feels dimmer and heavier.

Over time, I’ve built a toolkit that helps me get through those difficult days of winter depression. It doesn’t erase it, but it gives me something to hold onto until Spring at least.

1. Light therapy.
   A bright light lamp has become part of my morning ritual. It doesn’t magically fix everything, but it does help reset my internal rhythm and reduce that heavy, fog-like feeling.
2. Structured routines.
   I don’t schedule my days rigidly, but I give myself a routine to keep things flowing: morning task such as food shopping or writing meal plans for the week, in the afternoon I try to get in some movement after work, and the evening is my wind-down time. I do better when I stick to 8 hours of sleep a night too.
3.  I do movement, not “exercise.”
   Some days movement means stretching. Other days it means a walk. Sometime I’ll follow a deaf yoga teacher online. It’s more about gently waking my body than pushing it.Being active helps me feel slightly better than not being active.
4. Rest without feeling guilty.
   Probably the hardest one. But I’ve learned that resting early prevents deeper burnout later. For me, binge watching Netflix series isn’t a good way of resting – it isn’t helpful for my tired brain. But long soaks in a bath or doodling in bed are all kinds of ‘active rest’ that feel good for me.

Talking about seasonal depression can feel vulnerable, especially in a world where mental health still carries a taboo. But I’ve learned the value of choosing the right people:

My close deaf friends understand not just the emotional weight but also the sensory fatigue that winter brings. They don’t push me to be super social but they do encourage me to look after myself when my tendency is to rot in bed.

I have been fortunate to see a therapist who is fluent in sign language. This was a private therapist so I did have to pay but she really helped me navigate a particularly difficult period when I was first diagnosed and anxiety took over my mind. It was worth the money – an investment in my mental health.

My family know that I struggle in the winter but they still don’t fully accept that I have something that biologically malfunctions due to reduced light. I have stopped trying to convince them or make them understand.

What matters most isn’t how many people I talk to, but that the ones I choose actually listen. If you think you may also have SAD, you’re not being “dramatic.” You’re not “lazy.” You’re dealing with something real.

You don’t owe anyone proof of your struggle. You’re not obligated to “perform” wellness for other people’s comfort. Winter can be hard — and acknowledging that doesn’t make you weak.

Reach out for help and educate yourself as much as you can, as early understanding can help severe episodes. Oh, and taking Vitamin D – this has helped me too. But I’m not a doctor so please do see your GP if you feel winter has a negative affect on you.

I hope my writing has helped anyone who may be struggling with this.

This blog has been written anonymously as part of the Insight series – created by Assistant editor Rebecca A Withey.

If you have a story, experience or viewpoint you would like to anonymously share please email Rebecca on  rebecca@rawithey.com

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