I fought seasonal depression with a winter trip to the Arctic – and what I learned blew my mind: Here's why Laplanders don't get winter blues

SAD – Seasonal Affective Disorder – or milder forms of the ‘winter blues’ impact up to a third of the British population. When the days grow shorter, many of us start to feel lethargic, anxious and low in mood.

Getting up in the dark is a chore, and the thought of going out in the cold and damp isn’t an attractive option. And yet, while it may feel counterintuitive, heading out into nature can help us manage winter anxiety and depression.

Making sure we’re exposed to all available light on the shortest days of the year is proven to boost your serotonin and melatonin levels, lifting mood and improving sleep. Physical activity, such as walking and cycling in nature, improves your mental health and sense of wellbeing. Spending time in forests and beside or, indeed, in water when wild swimming is known to lower heart rate and blood pressure. It reduces your levels of stress, boosts the immune system and helps with recovery from illness.

SAD was first identified by mental health experts in 1984, but it’s something many of us have recognised for a long time, even if we’ve not been able to put a name to it. Now we can face feelings of listlessness and sluggishness in winter by getting outside into Britain’s great landscapes. Here’s how I helped combat my own SAD and what you can learn from my journey.

Soaring spirits

On a trip to the Arctic Circle in Finland, as a SAD sufferer I noticed something strange. Even though I was living in the ‘polar night’, my spirits were high. If the darkest months of the British Isles affected my mental health so badly, why did I feel so alive in the perpetual dusk and darkness of December in Lapland?

At 67.8° north, the light was subdued, like a dimmer switch had been turned right down. Here I experienced an ethereal and otherworldly landscape, the sky pale on the horizon and dusted in pastel shades of blue and violet, snowbound trees topped in ice-cream pink. On that trip I spent every day outdoors in the sub-zero temperatures either in the dusk or dark. Far from light pollution, the sky was star-studded and alive with meteor showers.

When back home, I found out SAD barely exists in Lapland. How could that be in this place of winter darkness? I returned to the Arctic Circle to see what I could learn from Finnish Laplanders. They told me snow reflects light, helping them through the polar night. They explained that they continue to go outdoors throughout the darkest days, having a strong affinity with nature.

I observed children going to school in the snow and darkness on fat-bikes, and watched the Finnish population fishing, snow-shoeing or cross-country skiing around their settlements after dark. I also set out on a fat-bike one evening, climbing through the snow to the top of a fell, with the beauty and stillness of the Arctic snowscape under the navy sky proving both thrilling and quietening.

Other worlds

But I couldn’t hope to replicate the Arctic Circle at home on my damp grey island – or could I? Snow is rare, even on the uplands of the Peak District, where I then lived. I could, however, go outside, however cold, however dark. I started taking weekly nighttime walks with friends. The senses of smell and hearing taking precedence over sight in the darkness was exhilarating. I tuned into the sounds of water, the smell of pine, the crunch of wizened leaves underfoot. Once we stumbled on a badger. With the Earth hidden under a blanket of darkness, the night sky revealed other worlds. We learnt the names of constellations and stars. All winter we tramped through woodlands and meadow and out into the light of spring. It was intoxicating.

I changed other winter habits. Heading out on bright snowy days had always been pleasurable, but now I pushed myself to step out into the rain and found I mostly had the world to myself. Slowly, I was overcoming my winter blues, although sometimes my winter depression would creep up on me just as I thought I was winning the battle. I started to spend more time in my local plantations, enjoying the vivid evergreens in the otherwise drab winter landscape.

I discovered shinrin yoku – forest bathing – a Japanese government initiative put in place in the 1980s as part of a wider health programme following the publication of several studies that showed a plethora of health benefits can be gained from spending unhurried time in woodlands. I realised I didn’t need to travel to the Sea of Trees below Mount Fuji to reap the benefits of forest bathing. The UK is filled with woods: small, compact and intimate.

Then I learnt that in Japan, as with Lapland, there are few reported cases of SAD, despite the harsh conditions of snow and freezing temperatures that sweep across many parts of the islands after autumn. I travelled to Japan and discovered a culture that not only celebrates winter in its many light and snow festivals, but also gives winter equal regard alongside the other seasons. Shiki-e – the depiction of the four seasons side-by-side – is frequently found in Japanese art and literature, from folded screens, woodblock prints and lacquerware to songs and poetry.

On that trip in Japan, I explored a deeply philosophical society that acknowledges and accepts the transience of life, the briefness of the seasons and its circular nature. In a country where tsunamis and earthquakes can destroy everything in a moment, there’s a deep respect for nature. Wa – balance and harmony in all things – is profoundly Japanese.

Lessons from the past

Back home in Derbyshire, I sought out the ancient monuments of our ancestors; they too had something to teach me. Neolithic and Bronze Age people lived intimately with nature and were in tune with the rhythms of the seasons. I also learnt from my woodland walks that the metabolism and growth of trees slows right down in winter. It’s called dormancy.

For us humans, winter should be a time for taking stock and recuperating, just as it was for our ancestors. The season is a time for resting up and for rebuilding our strength on slow rambles in nature, observing the slower rhythms of wildlife. Once, on a winter walk, I stumbled on a river of gossamer, a shimmering carpet of silver threads created by tiny money spiders on the limestone uplands.

On my rambles I learnt to stop and be still. I lingered to observe Atlantic grey seals and winter waders on the coast, arrows of geese, deer and woodpeckers in woodlands, solitary grey herons on riverbanks and razor-eyed buzzards on the moors. I spent time hunting for shells and pebbles on the seashore or gathering pine cones in forests. Focusing on the here and now, my winter anxiety fell away.

Burst of life

So how can we step out of winter anxiety as they do in the Arctic and Japan? We can take on their mindset, recognising seasons are transitionary, each one preparing the way for the next. Winter invites us to slow down and take time to observe and reflect.

Even though we don’t have much in the way of snow, we have 11,000 miles of light-giving coastline in the UK. The sea’s brightness dazzles on clear winter days. On sunny days, the interplay of dark and light across the ocean is cinematic and uplifting. Those still winter seas transfer their halcyon calmness to the body and soul. Other times, the ocean is full of stormy power. When the lid of winter grey becomes oppressive, storm watching on exposed coastlines can offer a transfer of energy and shake us out of lethargy.

I had the privilege of moving to a Scottish coastal town, not far from the Cairngorms, where snow is more likely to fall than in other parts of the UK. In the British Isles, the sea is always within a day’s reach. All of us can head out into the darkness, learn the names of the stars and tune into our other senses. Whether we live in town or country, we have woods nearby where we can ‘bathe’ in forest. We can seek out the light of big skies both in the uplands or the flatlands.

Here in Scotland, it finally hit home that without the dark, we cannot appreciate the light. It’s only by getting out in winter on the dullest and darkest of snap-short days – embracing the elements – we can truly feel the intoxication of spring light and the burst of life after months of fallow.

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I fought seasonal depression with a winter trip to the Arctic – and what I learned blew my mind: Here's why Laplanders don't get winter blues

Soaring spirits

Other worlds

Lessons from the past

Burst of life

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