The Weather Was Winning

I tried to act like I was tougher than biology.

“I’m not a plant,” I told myself. “I don’t need direct sunlight to function. I have a brain. I have will power. I have coffee.”

I lived in the Grey City. (If you live in the PNW or London or the Midwest in February, you know the Grey City).

For six months of the year, the sky was the color of a wet sidewalk. The sun was a rumor.

And for six months of the year, I slowly turned into a zombie.

The Seasonal Slide

It happened every November. The “Slide.”

My energy dropped. My optimism evaporated. It became physically difficult to get out of bed.

I blamed everything else. “I’m just tired from work.” “I need to eat better.” “I’m just in a funk.”

I bought a “Happy Lamp” (one of those blindingly bright light boxes). I sat in front of it for 20 minutes a morning, squinting like a hostage interrogation victim.

It helped a little. But it felt like putting a band-aid on a broken leg.

I was fighting a war against my environment. And the environment was winning.

The Epiphany of the Lizard Brain

We like to think we are sophisticated consciousnesses piloting meat-mechs. But we are mostly just Lizard Brains wrapped in a neocortex.

The Lizard Brain needs sun. It needs Vitamin D. It needs horizons.

When you deny the Lizard Brain its basic requirements, it pulls the emergency brake. It induces “sickness behavior”—lethargy, withdrawal, sadness—to conserve energy for a winter that never ends.

I realized I wasn’t Depressed (capital D). I was deprived.

I was trying to run high-performance software on hardware that had no battery.

The Guilt of Leaving for Weather

There is a stigma about moving “for the weather.” It sounds shallow. It sounds like something only retirees do.

“You’re moving to the desert? Just for the sun?”

“Yes,” I said. “Just for the sun.”

I felt silly saying it. Like I should have a deeper reason. “I’m moving for the job market.” “I’m moving for the culture.”

But the sun is a deep reason.

The sun is the source of all life on earth. Moving towards it isn’t shallow; it’s heliotropism. It’s survival.

The First Morning

I remember the first morning in my new home.

I woke up. The room was bright. Not “lightbulb bright.” Bright.

The sun was hitting the floorboards.

I stood up. And I didn’t feel the weight.

The “Lead Blanket” sensation—the heaviness that had sat on my chest for five winters—was gone.

I had energy. Not caffeine energy. Real energy. The desire to do things.

I went for a walk. The sky was blue. An aggressive, impossible blue.

I felt like I had taken a drug.

Environment is a Nutrient

We accept that we need good food. We accept that we need clean water.

Why don’t we accept that we need the right Light? And the right Air?

Your environment is a nutrient. You are ingesting it every second through your eyes, your skin, your lungs.

If you live in a place that is toxic to your biology, you will get sick. It doesn’t mean you are weak. It means you are incompatible.

Some people thrive in the rain. They love the cozy, introspection of the grey. They are mushrooms. I love mushrooms. But I am not a mushroom.

I am a lizard. I need a rock and a sunbeam.

Once I accepted my nature, everything got easier.

I stopped fighting the weather. I just moved to the weather that was fighting for me.

If you are struggling, look out the window.

Is the sky helping you? Or is it hurting you?

You are allowed to move to the light.