Into the Dark Season

Every fall, there’s this quiet shift you can feel in your bones — when the last long, bright evening fades, and Southeast Alaska exhales into its dark grey season. The air smells different. The clouds hang heavier.

It happens every year, but somehow it still sneaks up on me. One week we’re outside until 9 p.m., barefoot and sticky with berry juice, eating dinner outside in the lingering light. The next, it’s raining sideways at 4:30 and I’m staring out the window trying to remember the last time I saw the sun hit the mountains.

The Hard Reality of the Dark

It’s not just the weather — it’s the way it seeps into you. The long stretches of darkness, the isolation that comes with storm warnings, the constant dampness that settles into everything. There’s a heaviness that arrives with it — a kind of seasonal depression that feels like it’s baked into the geography of this place.

You start to notice it in yourself: slower mornings, less motivation, a feeling of being cooped up no matter how many candles you light or baked goods you make. Cabin fever, loneliness, exhaustion — they all show up uninvited, and it takes a lot of intentionality to keep them from taking root.

The Intentional Work of Staying Well

In the spring and summer, staying active and busy is effortless. The world outside is an invitation — bright, alive, and calling your name. The kids are out fishing, the trails are dry, the days are long enough to fit everything in twice. You don’t have to try to get outside — you just do.

But in the dark season, it becomes work. The kind that takes planning and grit. You have to choose to suit up, step out, and make something of the day — even when it’s cold and raining and your bones beg you to stay curled up under the blanket.

It’s a season that demands more from you — more awareness, more effort, more grace. You have to create your own light. You have to build small joys on purpose: family hikes in the drizzle, hot cocoa after errands, movie nights that end early enough to still rest. You have to protect your mental health like it’s sacred — because it is.

Remembering That Light Comes Back

And yet, this season has its quiet beauty too. It slows everything down to what matters most. There’s a rhythm here that forces you to notice the little things — the hum of the heater, the boys playing in the living room while rain pounds the roof, the first morning you see frost on the ground.

It’s easy to miss the sun, but there’s also something steadying about remembering it will come back. The light always does. And when it does, you’ll be ready for it — because you did the hard work of keeping yourself alive and present through the dark.

For now, it’s about being gentle, staying grounded, and choosing to find adventure in small ways — even when it’s just walking the trail in the drizzle or letting the kids jump in puddles until everyone’s soaked.

This season takes something from you — but it also gives something back: the reminder that light is worth waiting for, and that even in the darkest stretch of the year, there’s still life happening all around you if you choose to look for it.