If you have been reading this column for a while, you already know I struggle with depression. I have written around it, written through it, and occasionally written directly at it. Today I want to write about what happens when the season turns, and the light comes back, because May has always been the month that reaches into the grey and gently pulls me toward something that feels like purpose again.

I take medication. I want to say that simply and without ceremony because I spent years making it complicated, years treating it as a confession requiring careful management rather than a straightforward fact of my life.

I remember making the decision after a particularly hard winter, when nothing else seemed to help, and even the smallest tasks felt impossible. It took time, and honest conversations with my doctor and a few close friends, to realize that getting support could be an act of care, not surrender. The truth is, I will likely be on it for the rest of my life.

I live in the interior of British Columbia, where the winters are long, and the sunlight is scarce for months at a time, and my body needs support that the season simply cannot provide on its own. Medication did not fix me. It gave me enough ground to do the work. And the work, as anyone who has navigated depression knows, is ongoing. It does not finish. It deepens.

What changes in May is the light. This is not a metaphor. The relationship between sunlight and mood is well-documented, and Vitamin D deficiency affects millions of Canadians emerging from the long interior winter in measurable ways. We are creatures of light living increasingly indoor lives, and many of us carry a heaviness we have never connected to anything as elemental as the sun. I notice the shift in my own body every year without fail. The mornings arrive differently. Something that had gone quiet in me begins, without announcement, to speak again.

What it says in May is: “What are you living for?”

Not what are you managing? Not what are you getting through? What are you actually living for right now?

I used to find that question terrifying. It felt too large, too demanding, like something that required a fully formed answer before you were allowed to get out of bed. I have learned, slowly and with considerable resistance, that the question is asking for today’s answer. One small thing. A swim. A conversation. A cup of tea made just how you like it. Listening to a song that comforts you on hard days. A column you are trying to write honestly. A person you love who does not know yet that you are thinking about them.

Purpose, I have come to understand, is a practice you return to. It is like the way the earth returns to the sun — reliably, cyclically, sometimes after a very long winter. You do not find it once and keep it. You find it again every morning in the small decisions about what matters to you today.

So I go outside in May, put my bare feet on the ground, and let the warmth land without making anything of it. I breathe. I ask the quiet question. I stay with whatever answer comes, even if it is small, even if it is only: I want to swim today. That is enough. That is, in fact, everything.

If you are in the grey right now, I am going to say what I wish someone had said to me sooner. You are allowed to need help. You are allowed to take medication and still be strong. You are allowed to struggle through the dark months, come back in May, and call that resilience, because it is. The fact that you are still here, still reading, still looking for something to hold onto, that is not weakness. That is the whole point.

If you are unsure where to begin, you might start by telling a friend, “I am having a hard time and could use someone to talk to,” or by letting your doctor know, “Lately, things have felt heavier than usual.” Even a simple message can open the door to finding support.

Step outside today. Let the light find you. Ask yourself: what is one small thing that matters to me now?

You do not need a grand answer. Just today’s.

May returns each year, a gentle reminder that renewal is always possible. Sometimes, though, hope or light does not arrive all at once. If it takes time for the heaviness to lift, or if you still feel stuck as the season changes, that does not mean you are failing or being left behind. The door is open for you to step into the light and purpose again, whatever the winter has been.

You are more capable than you know.

If you are struggling, please reach out to a trusted person, your doctor, or Crisis Services Canada at 1-833-456-4566. You do not have to carry this alone.

Amy Tucker is a University Instructor at Thompson Rivers University and proudly calls herself an “accidental athlete.” As a senior swimmer and long-distance open-water enthusiast, she has represented Team Canada on the Age-Group Triathlon Team for the past three years. Amy is passionate about encouraging others to embrace fitness and wellness at any stage of life, proving it’s never too late to chase new challenges.