The clocks went back a week ago, and I’ve already had my first drive home in the dark.
There’s a particular feeling that comes with it. You step out of work and the day has gone without you. The air is cold on your face, the car windscreen needs a scrape, and the sky that was there when you arrived has been swapped for a streetlight and a few stubborn stars. For a moment it feels a bit daunting. Winter is long, and we’re only at the start of it.
I want to be honest about that, because I think a lot of us feel it and quietly push on anyway.
My instinct, every year, is to treat the dark evenings as something to get through. To grit my teeth, keep the same pace and the same expectations, and wait for spring. But I’ve started to wonder what happens if I stop pushing against it.
Nothing in nature carries on at summer speed through November. The garden has gone quiet. The hedgehogs are tucked away. The trees have let go of their leaves. Everything around us is slowing down on purpose, and it seems a little odd that we expect ourselves to be the exception.
So this year I’m trying to see the dark as an invitation rather than an obstacle. Permission to turn inwards a little. To do less, and do it with more care.
The thing about darkness is that it makes you notice light. And the lovely part is how much of it we can make ourselves.
Lamps instead of the big overhead bulb. Candles on the table at tea time. Fairy lights that go up a little earlier than is strictly sensible. A blanket within reach of the sofa and something warm in a mug. The smell of something slow cooking when I walk through the door. These aren’t big gestures, but together they change what an evening feels like. The dark stops being something outside the window and becomes the reason the room feels so cosy.
I think there’s something in that for how we lead and how we work too. We can’t always change the conditions around us, but we can choose what we bring into the room. Warmth. Patience. A bit of gentle light for the people around us.
The long evenings also give us something the summer rarely does, which is time to think.
In June I’m rarely still. There’s always one more thing outside calling for attention. In November, the evening stretches out and there’s space to sit and notice. What went well this term? What am I carrying that I could put down? What do I actually want more of before the year closes?
I’m challenging myself to keep a few minutes at the end of each day for exactly that. A cup of tea, a lamp on, and a few quiet questions. Nothing dramatic. I’m curious to see whether my thoughts sort themselves out more easily when I’m not rushing past them.
So if the dark evenings are weighing on you, here’s a gentle thought. You don’t have to love them. But you might be able to make friends with them, just a little.
Light a candle. Slow your pace. Let the evenings be what they are, and see what they have to offer.
I’ll let you know how I get on. Care to join me?
What’s one small thing you could do this week to bring a little more light into your evenings?
