When the Magic Wilts: Witchcraft & Seasonal Depression
Author’s Note: The content of this blog reflects my personal experiences and perspectives on magic. Witchcraft is a deeply individual practice, and my approach may not align with everyone’s beliefs or traditions. I encourage readers to explore, question, and adapt what resonates with them. Nothing shared here is meant to serve as absolute truth or professional advice. Trust your intuition, do your own research, and walk your own path.
Since my battle with seasonal depression began, I’ve noticed its shadows over my magical practice. It crept in slowly at first, just a little less interest in my altars, a little more resistance to doing long rituals. But over time, it became predictable and palpable: the seasons were shifting, and I was shifting with them.
Most people assume seasonal depression belongs to the dark half of the year. The cold. The short days. The long nights. But my experience runs counter to that. For me, the melancholy sets in when everything is supposed to be blooming. It’s spring and summer that drag me down. While others are making flower crowns, tending gardens, and dancing under the sun, I’m pulling inward. Quiet. Foggy. Disconnected.
It’s not just a mood. It’s physical. The seasonal allergies are relentless. My asthma flares. My body becomes a battleground. The bright sun, the heat, the pollen, the constant hum of insects—it all feels like too much. I struggle to go outside. Even getting out of bed or out of the house feels like a victory some days.
And my magic, which usually feels like an extension of myself, suffers with me.
In autumn and winter, it’s a different story entirely. That’s when I thrive. The air sharpens. The nights stretch long. My senses come alive. I feel in tune with the unseen, the liminal, the mysterious. I’m focused. Energized. Witchcraft flows easily during those months, like a river following its natural course.
Those are the seasons when I am doing. I rededicate myself to my path every October on the anniversary of my first dedication. I perform rituals, craft spells, speak with spirits, teach students, make and mend my magical tools. My altars are alive, lit, fragrant, tended with care. Every breath feels magical, every day a chance to deepen my work.
But when spring returns, I don’t feel magical. I don’t even feel like myself. My tools go untouched. Candles stay unlit. Incense curls in my mind but not in my room. The idea of performing a spell or organizing a ritual feels overwhelming, nearly impossible. And more than that—I feel alone.
So much of our magical dialogue, our events, our community momentum is seasonal and much of it happens in the spring and summer. Gatherings. Festivals. Outdoor circles. Garden witchery. Communal spellwork under bright skies. These were thing I enjoyed once. These days, it all sounds lovely in theory—but in practice, I’m too exhausted, too fogged out, too physically miserable to join in.
I don’t have the energy to engage in group chats or post photos of my magical workings ( and to be honest, there aren’t any). And while my peers are excitedly sharing their spring rituals or solstice plans, I’m pulling back into my shell, feeling like the rhythm of the community has left me behind.
That loneliness cuts deep. It can make the depression feel heavier. It can turn rest into isolation. Even when I know it’s just a seasonal cycle, it’s hard not to feel like I’m drifting out of sync—like I’ve lost my place.
But recently, I’ve started to shift my perspective. Instead of framing my year in terms of feeling witchy or not feeling witchy, I now see it in terms of working versus resting, of practicing versus studying.
Because of my seasonal depression, I have different needs and different capacities throughout the year. And instead of fighting that, I’ve started to honor it.
I now consider autumn and winter to be my working seasons. That’s when I pour energy outward—toward spirits, community, spells, and ritual. That’s when I do. It’s when my magic is alive, and my practice is active, focused, and full of momentum.
In contrast, I’ve reimagined spring and summer as my resting seasons. That doesn’t mean I’ve stopped being a witch. It means my witchcraft changes form.
During the bright half of the year, my practice becomes quiet, internal. I do work that doesn’t require me to summon a spark I don’t have. I read, and I reflect. I do gentle divination. I journal. I dream. I speak to my own spirit. I meditate. I clean and reorganize my supplies—not to use them, but to remind myself that they’re there, waiting for me.
These months are for tending the roots of my practice rather than the blossoms. They’re for studying, composting, resting, recovering. And when I do that, I realize something important: Resting is not the absence of magic. Resting is magic.
It’s the moment between breaths. The dark soil holding the seed. There is a rhythm here. A truth. A deep remembering.
We’re not machines. We’re not meant to produce endlessly, especially not in the same ways all year round. Witchcraft, like nature, has seasons. Some are loud. Some are quiet. Some are meant for building, and others are meant for lying fallow.
Reframing my year in this way—working seasons and resting seasons—has brought me back to myself. It’s helped me shed the guilt. It’s helped me see that even when I’m not lighting candles or casting spells, I’m still deeply, inherently magical.
And when I do reconnect with my communities—when autumn turns again, and I resurface with stories, insight, and fresh magic in my hands—I bring the wisdom of rest with me. I come back not empty, but replenished.
So if you’re someone whose witchcraft feels like it’s slipping through your fingers for half the year… If you feel out of sync with your friends, your coven, your Craft… Know this:
You are not failing. You are following a different cycle.
You are not forgotten. You are simply quiet.
You are not disconnected. You are composting.
And when you bloom again, the magic will be there waiting.
