Winter has a way of sharpening the edges of our lives. I felt it personally this week when my furnace broke — minus 15 degrees celcius and a house filled with borrowed space heaters keeping humans and animals from freezing. Winter can be hard for so many. The days shrink, the light thins, and at times, the feelings we’ve been outrunning can no longer be ignored. As a psychotherapist, I expect to hear more emotional heaviness in winter; grief resurfacing, ageing feeling more pronounced, regrets growing louder, relationships feeling more distant.
And then comes the pressure to “stay positive,” “manifest joy,” or “not fall into negativity,” especially online where wellness messaging is soaked in toxic positivity. But joy—real joy—is not a bypass. It isn’t a denial of pain or an erasure of truth. Joy, in the context of grief, ageing, and regret, becomes something else entirely: a lifeline. A small opening. A way of making room for the parts of us that still want to live.
Problem Saturation: When Every Story Becomes the Dark Story
As therapists, we can fall into narratives with our clients that are “problem saturated” — where lives become fully organized around what is wrong. It happens slowly: grief after a parent dies, guilt about years we can’t get back, the awareness of time passing faster than we imagined. Soon the problem becomes the whole identity, and the world narrows.
Consider a mid-life client who says, “All I see is what I didn’t do or what I missed. Every time I try to feel hopeful, it feels like I’m lying to myself. Then I feel guilty or ashamed for being so negative”. The client isn’t depressed. They are grieving the life they thought they would have — and winter is amplifying the static.
But when we looked closer, there were still glimmers and I encourage clients to find these: a weekly swim, a neighbour she exchanged jokes with, a morning coffee or tea or a sunrise; or the way the kettle sounds in the morning. These aren’t “positives.” They are counterweights.
Joy doesn’t replace pain. It coexists with it.
Joy as a Nervous System Practice, Not a Mood
In trauma therapy, we talk about widening the “window of tolerance.” Joy—especially in dark seasons—is one of the most accessible ways to do this. Not the performative joy of forcing a smile or “being grateful for what you have,” but the smallest possible version of it.
For a grieving father, joy may come in a game of shinny with friends, helping a friend with a move, taking in a hockey game on TV with another friend, taking a walk through the woods nearby. It isn’t one answer — but can help put his mind and body in motion when his mind is spiraling. For a client navigating midlife regret, joy may mean walking outside for five minutes after work without their phone. For another, it was watching absurd animal videos because they disrupted their tendency to catastrophize.
These moments didn’t solve anything. But they softened edges, reduced internal noise, and created micro-experiences of aliveness.
Ageing, Regret, and Permission to Seek Joy
Middle age can feel like an emotional border crossing. Regrets accumulate. The body changes. Friendships shift. Parenting or caregiving roles intensify. Many women tell me, “It feels too late to want more.”
But joy is not a luxury reserved for the young or unburdened. It’s a human right. And in midlife, it becomes a radical act: proof that you have not given up on yourself.
Three Therapeutic Questions for Cultivating Joy This Winter
1. Where does your body relax a half-inch?
Not fully. Just a half-inch. That’s the doorway.
2. What moments interrupt the heaviness—even for five seconds?
A scent, a memory, a laugh, a song, a stretch.
3. What version of joy feels emotionally honest right now?
Quiet joy? Practical joy? Spontaneous joy? Companioned joy?
Moving Forward
As we enter another dark winter in Ontario, the invitation isn’t to “stay positive.” It’s to stay human. To let joy—real, grounded, unforced—sit beside your grief, regret, and ageing. Not to fix them, but to accompany you through them.
Because joy is not the opposite of pain.
It is a reminder that even in darkness, you are still capable of feeling the light.
