This time of year used to creep up on me in ways I could never quite prepare for. As the days grew shorter and the nights stretched endlessly, something inside me would begin to shift. It wasn’t just the darkness outside that deepened – it was the darkness within. My anxiety would stir, first as a whisper and then as a roar, joined by that familiar heaviness that I now recognise as a mix of Seasonal Affective Disorder and spiritual fatigue. Back then, I didn’t have the tools or the understanding to meet it with compassion or awareness. All I knew was that something inside me hurt, and I wanted it to stop.

And so, I turned once again to the bottle – my old, treacherous friend. Alcohol seemed to promise what I craved most: silence. I wanted peace from the noise of my thoughts, the endless self-criticism, the unease that sat in my chest like a stone. But the funny, tragic thing was that it never worked. No matter how much I drank, the stillness I sought always dissolved into chaos. The temporary numbness gave way to deeper despair, and yet my mind convinced me that the next time would be different. That next drink would finally switch off the storm. Looking back now, I can only shake my head at the insanity of it – but at the time, it felt like survival.

I didn’t see another way. The thought of sitting with myself – sober, anxious, and alone – was unbearable. I didn’t realise then that I was keeping myself trapped in that endless loop. I was both the prisoner and the jailer. Every time I reached for the bottle, I tightened the chains just a little more. The cycle had its own rhythm, and I was powerless against it, or at least that’s how it felt. I couldn’t imagine that peace might exist without alcohol. I couldn’t imagine that stillness might come from something other than self-destruction.

But the truth, as I now understand, is that I only needed to break the cycle long enough to let the light in – just long enough to let help reach me. The pain I was so desperate to escape was actually my body and spirit crying out for healing. If I had tried to stop on my own, I might have managed for a while, but it wouldn’t have lasted. What I needed was more than abstinence – I needed connection, understanding, and guidance. That’s what Alcoholics Anonymous gave me. Through my sponsor’s wisdom, through the laughter and tears shared in those rooms, I began to see that I was not alone in my madness.

Now, when the dark months come around, I feel something entirely different. The nights are still long, and the days still fade too quickly, but I no longer dread them. I have warmth in my life that isn’t poured from a bottle. I have people who understand the battles that happen in silence. I have friends – real friends – who reach out, who share their strength, and who let me share mine in return. Together, we walk through the long dark nights and somehow, in each other’s company, we find the light.

These days, I don’t feel as sad. That’s not because the world has changed, but because I have. Sobriety has given me gifts I never thought possible – serenity, connection, and gratitude. The darkness still visits from time to time, but I’ve learned that I don’t have to fight it or flee from it. I can sit with it, breathe through it, and trust that the dawn will come again. It always does.

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When the Nights Grow Long

When the nights grow long,
and the sun forgets to linger,
the shadows inside me once rose too.
I mistook them for enemies,
and tried to drown them in silence
poured from a bottle.

I drank to quiet the storm,
but the storm was born of my drinking.
Each sip, a whisper: this time will be different.
How softly madness speaks,
how gently it convinces.

In truth, there was no monster in the dark,
only a frightened heart,
calling out for light.
But I could not hear it then,
not through the noise of my escape.

It was not the winter that broke me,
but my refusal to feel its cold.
Only when I stopped running,
when I stood trembling in the frost,
did I find the strength to endure.

Then came the hands of others,
the circle of those who knew.
We shared stories like lanterns,
and the long dark night grew softer,
as if the stars themselves had gathered to listen.

Now, the days still shorten,
and the wind still speaks of endings.
But I am no longer afraid.
For in stillness, I find warmth;
in darkness, I find peace;
and in surrender, I find light.