a sunshine love letter

My Norwegian-Alaskan skin, practically translucent after months of rain, soaked up every golden ray of sun until the inevitable first sunburn of summer appeared—a bright pink badge of honor, and honestly, I didn’t mind earning it.

After what felt like nine straight months of cloud-drenched skies and sideways rain, the sun finally decided to show up in Southeast Alaska this week. And not just for a fleeting moment between rain storms, but a full, glorious stretch of warmth. In a place where moss grows on more than just the trees and rain gear is second skin, this shift felt less like weather and more like homecoming.

May of this year was the rainiest in recorded history—a record no one was necessarily striving for. Day after day blurred into a windy wet monotony. Plans were canceled. Trails were more muddy. Even the seagulls looked a little soggier than usual. It’s the kind of rain that starts to shape not just your routines but your moods.

So when the clouds finally pulled back and sunlight spilled down from the heavens, it felt like the whole region exhaled. People emerged like sunflowers, tilting their faces skyward, silent in gratitude. It wasn’t just about the warmth—though, let’s be honest, that hit different—it was the sudden light, the colors waking up again, and the reminder that seasons do, eventually, change

There’s something deeply intimate about a sunny day in Southeast Alaska because of how rare and cherished it is. Kids dash barefoot through puddles that were finally dry, neighbors paused conversations just to soak in the rays, and the trails—once empty for the hardiest souls—have been buzzing with hikers, dogs, and laughter. And for many, it wasn’t just emotional—it was physiological. Months of overcast skies can take a real toll. Seasonal Affective Disorder, or SAD, isn’t just a buzzword around here; it’s a lived reality. The lack of sunlight and constant haze of grey skies and rain disrupts circadian rhythms, zaps your energy, and can quietly envelope you in a heavy mood that’s hard to shake. So when the sun finally breaks through, it’s more than pleasant—it’s medicine.

And then there’s the vitamin D. That elusive, mood-lifting, skin-kissing dose of “you’re gonna be okay.” Science says we need it, but here, it feels more spiritual than clinical. You don’t just absorb sunlight—you wear it, carry it with you, let it linger long after the last light slips behind the peaks.

Sunshine here isn’t a backdrop; it’s an event. A moment of pause, a reason to rearrange your day, to ditch the to-do list and just be. To sit on a porch step with a cup of coffee and nothing else. To listen to the world drying out, warming up, coming alive.

In Southeast Alaska, when the sun returns, it doesn’t just brighten the sky. It brightens everything.