Seasonal Affective Disorder: A Story of My Journey to Healing

(This post discusses depression, suicidal thoughts, and mental health hospitalization. Please read with care and take breaks as needed. If this content feels overwhelming, you are not alone, and support is available.)

Sixteen years ago, I accidentally discovered the name of a mental illness I had been living with for years: Seasonal Affective Disorder, also known as SAD.

Labor Day in the United States falls on the first Monday of September. Living in Georgia, in the southeastern part of the country, I noticed that the weather would begin to cool shortly after Labor Day. Long before I knew anything about SAD, my mood followed a familiar pattern year after year. After Labor Day, I would start feeling down for no clear reason. The sadness lingered through fall and winter—about six months—and then lifted naturally when spring arrived.

One November, while struggling with persistent sadness and depression, I finally asked myself: Why do I always feel this way after Labor Day? Could it be related to the change of seasons? I searched online, and sure enough, Seasonal Affective Disorder appeared on my screen.

That was the moment I realized it was real—and that I had it.

Looking back, everything suddenly made sense. Every fall and winter, I felt sad, drained of energy, and uninterested in things I normally enjoyed. I still remember one winter night when I frantically searched the internet for warm places to escape to, longing to bathe in sunshine.

It was the first time I truly accepted that I might have depression. I was exhausted from suffering through uncontrollable mood changes, feeling low all the time, and wearing a fake smile in front of others. So I went to see my family doctor to seek medical advice.

She told me there was an easy fix.
“Take this medication, and you’ll feel better. When spring comes, you won’t need it anymore.”

She prescribed me Zoloft.

After just a few days, something incredible happened. I felt lighter. My mood lifted. The sadness disappeared. For the first time in my life, I felt relaxed, happy, and worry-free. I was amazed that such a small pill could change everything. I called it my “happy pill.”

I took the medication for about five months and made it through the cold winter with this newfound emotional lightness. When spring arrived, my mood improved even more. Surrounded by blooming flowers and warm breezes, I told myself, Winter is over. I don’t need this pill anymore.

Without telling my doctor, I stopped taking it.

What happened next was terrifying.

Within two weeks, I became irritable, angry, and compulsive. Suicidal thoughts began to creep in. Later, I learned that medications for mental health conditions must never be stopped abruptly. They need to be tapered under a doctor’s supervision. Otherwise, emotions can spiral dangerously out of control.

One day, after a heated argument with my husband, I rushed out of the house and drove away like a madwoman. My mind was consumed by one thought: Crash into a wall and end it all.

Fortunately, I didn’t.

I had two young children at home. I could not leave them in this world without a mother.

Instead, I went to my close friend Margaret’s house in tears and told her everything—the thoughts, the fear, the despair. Margaret was someone I trusted deeply. A devoted Christian, she had taught me Bible study for three years and had always been there for me when I struggled to balance family and work. To me, Margaret was an angel sent by God.

She listened with extraordinary gentleness and kindness. Then she gave me one piece of advice that changed my life forever—something I still believe was a miracle.

She gave me the name of Dr. Simpson, a respected psychologist who had treated her son for depression. She urged me to see her immediately.

I called Dr. Simpson right away. To my surprise, she told me she couldn’t see me until I went somewhere for an evaluation. I was angry—why wouldn’t she help me right away? But I had no choice.

Accompanied by a friend—because I was still furious with my husband and didn’t want him involved—I went to Pleasant Hill, not knowing what it really was.

As we drove in, I saw the sign: Pleasant Hill Mental Health Institute.

I met with a staff member who conducted a 45-minute interview, asking about my medical history, family background, feelings, and mood. At the end, she asked a question that startled me:

“Are you willing to be hospitalized at this time?”

My answer was yes.

I knew I needed help. I knew I was experiencing a mental breakdown. This wasn’t unfamiliar territory—my mother had suffered from severe mental illness. She had been hospitalized three times within five years after I was born and had taken medication for many years before recovering.

I knew professional help was the only way forward.

What followed became history—and healing.

I later wrote more stories about my journey to mental health recovery. If you’re curious, you can read the next chapters of my story.

By sharing this, I hope to spread hope and light.

There is hope.
There is light.
You are not alone.

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