The clocks slipped back, and something in me slipped with them. I never expect it to hit as hard as it does, but every year, like clockwork, I feel my body dim. Mornings drag. Nights come too early. I sleep too long, yet never feel rested. Inside, everything feels muted. Not broken, just distant, like my emotions are speaking from another room.
I know the name for it. Seasonal affective disorder. That doesn’t make it easier, but at least it gives shape to the fog.
On the better days, I pull...