When winter stays too long

Fiona L Smith discusses the quiet heaviness of late winter and how listening to the nervous system can support a slow, embodied return to life.

Photograph: Pexels / Nadine Wuchenauer

Text: Fiona L Smith

After Imbolc on 1 February, we’re officially closer to Spring than to midwinter. The days are getting longer, and the seasonal shift has begun. But for many, particularly those of us living in the ‘dark north’, that change can still be hard to feel.

Instead, we often experience a sense of heaviness or a lack of motivation at this time of year. Energy is inconsistent, and rather than wanting to socialise, there may be a strong pull to just stay on the sofa, wrapped in warm blankets. Sometimes this is exactly what the body needs; sometimes it comes with a restless, gnawing anxiety under the surface, or numbness, listlessness or disconnection.

You might feel guilty; some might call it laziness. But it all makes sense when we look at how the Nervous System responds to winter.

In somatic and trauma-informed work, we recognise several survival responses in the Autonomic Nervous System. Most people are familiar with fight-or-flight; less understood but equally common is freeze.

Freeze isn’t simply ‘doing nothing’. It’s a highly organised physiological state in which the body conserves energy, limits movement, reduces sensation and emotion and pulls inward. Heart rate and circulation slow, digestion gets sluggish, and our emotional range narrows. It’s a protective response that often follows prolonged stress, burnout, or overwork.

Winter can significantly exacerbate this state

Cold temperatures, reduced daylight and less spontaneous social contact all signal to the body that resources are scarce. Movement naturally decreases, spontaneous connections occur less frequently, and sensory input declines. The Nervous System adapts accordingly, shifting us towards a freeze-like state; often without us realising.

When contact and sensory input are reduced, the world can begin to feel distant, and freeze often feels profoundly isolating. From this state, reaching out to new friends or recent acquaintances, or trying something unfamiliar, can feel difficult, reinforcing a sense of not quite belonging. This is a particularly sensitive area for many internationals living in Denmark.

The danger of being highly competent

What complicates this is that many people don’t experience an obvious collapse. Instead, they’re living in what’s known as a functional freeze.

Functional freeze is a highly capable and often socially rewarded state, especially at work. From here, we can get a great deal done; we meet deadlines, care for everyone else, tick boxes, and keep life moving.

Underneath, though, there’s often a lot of activation being held in check – pain, anxiety, insomnia or irritability – alongside a conscious or unconscious holding back of impulse, desire and emotional expression. You’re ‘keeping it all together’.

Over time, numbness and emotional flatness can set in, and we lose access to passion, creativity and joy. You’re going through the motions rather than fully living. This is a survival state and, whilst efficient, there’s rarely much energy left once the essentials are done.

Functional freeze can persist well beyond the point at which we feel we ‘should’ be doing better. Mentally, we want to move on; Spring is coming! But the Nervous System doesn’t understand ‘should’; it understands lived experience. If the body continues to experience cold, pressure, isolation and lack of contact, it stays organised around survival rather than aliveness.

Gently thawing freeze

By February, many bodies are quietly asking for something different. Not more effort or force, but more contact, sensory input and movement.

When we’re in freeze, the ego can respond by pushing harder, with an all-or-nothing approach. Unsurprisingly, this leads to procrastination or shutdown, because the system perceives it as too much.

Freeze doesn’t soften through willpower; it shifts through consistent, small kindnesses. Through cues that say it’s safe to engage, little by little.

Gentle movement is a powerful way to support this – brisk walking, shaking, yoga flow or spontaneous dance. Unforced movement allows the Nervous System to experience mobilisation in safety.

We can also resource ourselves by gently orienting to our surroundings when outside: looking up at rooftops, noticing light, colour, and movement, or letting our gaze take in other people. The more we connect with what’s here, the more present we become, and the safer the body feels.

Contact matters enormously. This might involve contact with trusted people, massage or bodywork, or sensory warmth, such as baths, saunas, blankets, or a hot water bottle. These aren’t luxuries; they’re regulatory signals.

Social connection doesn’t need to be intense. Low-pressure contact is often sufficient – a short walk, a voice note, making eye contact, and exchanging a few words with the barista (SO un-Danish!). Being seen and heard in ordinary ways brings the body back to life.

February is a threshold month. Winter isn’t over yet, even if the calendar says otherwise. When we respect the Nervous System’s timing and tend to its need for warmth, contact and gentle connection, the transition towards new life and beginnings becomes more sustainable and embodied.