This is where things start to make sense.

February in Michigan begins the moment you open your eyes and realize the room is still dark enough to be midnight, even though the clock says 6:45 a.m. You lie there for a minute, listening to the furnace click on like an old man clearing his throat, then force yourself upright and shuffle to the kitchen. A plate from Tuesday sits in the sink, water running over it as if motion alone might clean it. The thought of actually scrubbing it feels like signing up for overtime on a job you already hate. Outside, the thermometer is stuck at minus ten. The cold makes your face ache just imagining it. The sky is that particular Michigan gray, flat and tired and old, the color everyone now calls "millennial gray" because so many apartments got painted that shade a few years back and no one has quite recovered from it. This is how February works in Michigan right now. You wake up in the dark, drive to work in the dark, come home in the dark, all while the wind tries to peel your skin off like gift wrap. The cold is petty and relentless. It sneaks into your gloves, turns your fingers into stiff little sausages, makes every errand a calculation of how long you can stay outside before you lose feeling in your toes. You tell yourself you'll get things done. Pay the bills, vacuum the living room, call that friend who's been texting for weeks. The list sits on the counter like an accusation. Opening the laptop requires more willpower than you have. Folding a load of laundry feels like climbing a mountain in flip-flops. Social plans? You type "Sure, sounds fun" then delete it because leaving the house means putting on layers, scraping the car, driving on roads that are half ice, half salt, half despair. Easier to stay put, doomscroll on your phone, let Netflix run episodes you've already seen while the screen eventually asks, "Are you still watching?" You are not. You are barely existing. The Flatness, the Fog, and the Sudden Snaps Everything has gone quiet inside in a way that isn't peaceful. It's the quiet of a house where the heat has been turned off for weeks. You still move through the day, but the movements are mechanical, like someone else is operating the controls. You open the refrigerator and stare at the shelves as if food might suddenly explain itself. Nothing looks good. Nothing looks bad. Nothing looks like anything. The same goes for the television, the book you used to enjoy, the conversation you used to want to have. They are all there, but they register as distant noise, the way a radio playing in another room sounds like it's underwater. The fog sits heavy on your thoughts. You start a sentence and lose the end of it before you reach the period. You walk into a room and forget why you came. You promise yourself you'll do one small thing—empty the dishwasher, reply to that text—and then you sit down and the promise evaporates. Time slips. An hour passes in a blur of nothing. You sit on the couch, phone in hand, thumb moving across the screen without purpose, eyes glazing over notifications you don't open. Another hour vanishes while you stare at the wall, not even scrolling anymore. The world keeps turning outside the window, but you feel like you're watching it from the bottom of a well, sound muffled, light dimmed, everything slightly out of reach. And then, out of nowhere, the flatness cracks and something sharp comes through. The dog looks at you with those big eyes, tail wagging like it's auditioning for forgiveness, and instead of petting it you snap, "What do you want now?" and walk away. The tone surprises you, but only for a second. You snap at your partner over how the dishwasher is loaded, as if the plates are lined up wrong on purpose. A colleague sends a perfectly normal email and you read it like it's an insult, type back something clipped, then spend twenty minutes regretting it. Everything small becomes enormous. Every slight feels deliberate. You become the person who bites heads off over a misplaced remote, who answers questions with a tone that surprises even you. The snap arrives fast, hot, disproportionate, and leaves you feeling worse than before. You apologize later, or you don't, because apologizing also takes energy you don't have. The flatness returns, thicker now, like it resents being interrupted. What the Body Is Actually Saying After years of studying holistic health, the nutrient side of things, how the body quietly unravels without certain basics, it's clear this isn't character failure. You're not lazy, broken, or suddenly incompetent. You're not "just not handling winter well" or failing at adulting. The sun has been AWOL for weeks. No rays mean no vitamin D synthesis in your skin. Vitamin D helps make serotonin, the chemical that keeps mood from sinking into sludge. Without it, motivation drains away, tasks loom impossibly large, and a dull, persistent flatness takes over. Everything feels pointless, heavy, gray as the sky. Magnesium gets used up fast too, burned through by the constant tension of winter. The shoveling you avoid until you can't, the dry indoor air, the low-level stress of just getting through another identical day. Low magnesium leaves nerves raw. No buffer. Irritability flares at nothing. You become the person who bites off heads over a misplaced remote because your system has no calm left in reserve. The tension headaches, the clenched jaw, the snappish replies that surprise even you, the restless legs at night. All of it points to the same shortages, made worse by cold that keeps you locked inside and sunlight that never arrives. That "Oh. That’s why February feels like this" moment? It usually hits when you realize the problem isn't you, it's the missing vitamin D and magnesium your body hasn't been getting all winter. The Small, Hopeful Fix That Actually Works The hopeful part, small as it is, is that replenishing works. Get bloodwork done. If levels are low, and in Michigan in February they almost always are, start with vitamin D3, about 2,000 IU daily with a meal that has some fat. Magnesium glycinate, the form that doesn't turn your stomach inside out. Then the basics. Bundle up for a short walk on a less arctic day if one appears, eat fresh, colorful foods when you can, drink water instead of letting coffee be your only fluid. Nothing heroic. Just steady. February will not improve. The gray will stay gray, the cold will stay vicious, Netflix will keep pausing to ask if you're really still there, and the wind will keep finding new ways to hurt. But the fog thins a little. Tasks that felt insurmountable get done, grudgingly. You answer the email, wash the plate, text the friend. The snaps turn to mutters. You might glance outside and think, without irony, that March isn't impossible. It's not joy. It's function. In a winter this punishing and monotonous, function is something.