Winter Sundays might be the most detestable part of my life. 

Of course, that’s an exaggeration, but every single Sunday, from the end of December to the beginning of April, any positive feelings I have acquired over the course of my weekend evaporate alongside the few remaining threads of my free time.

The sun is gone by 6:00 p.m. and with it, my motivation to get anything done. 

I hate cleaning my room in the winter. 

My clothes pile up because Sunday afternoons in the winter are meant for worrying about school the next day. I can’t clean my room if I have to be up in less than 10 hours. Besides, my bedroom light is so dim that if it’s any later than 4:30 p.m., my room is too depressingly dark to spend my time in.

Dark winter nights—at least after December—are inarguably the worst time of the year. My mood matches the weather. In the sloppy slush of snow outside, I feel my life inching through time as sluggishly stubborn as the winter night. 

Too much darkness and too much cold, both too adamant to disappear with only the weak glimpses of sunlight glancing infrequently through the piled-up gray. 

My room is too quiet in the summer. The windows are closed and I don’t feel like listening to any kind of music. 

I haven’t laughed in this place in days; it doesn’t even feel like my room anymore. Too cold, stale, and devoid of anything that reminds me of myself. 

I hate how dark winter is. I don’t think my room will ever be clean again, and my motivation left me so long ago that I don’t even remember what it feels like to want to get something done. 

It’s sunny out today. It’s warm. Thank God. 

And suddenly, my schoolwork is getting done. Productivity comes easily when I’m able to do my homework lying in the pools of sunlight pouring onto my floor. 

Suddenly, I’m cleaning my room and listening to music and enjoying it. Suddenly, I’m moving month-old boxes out of my room and replacing them with windowsill flowers and brightly colored summer decorations. 

My laugh is more frequently heard, and my room is rarely silent anymore. 

Instead, it’s warm. It’s bright with sunlight and newly replaced lightbulbs. 

The dust that had lived on every surface imaginable is now pollen instead, and if it makes me sneeze more, so be it. Pollen means the windows are open, and I can smell the grass and hear the lawnmower. 

My room is clean. My desk is piled high with my own books, used and loved and summery instead of the marked-up textbooks and scattered pencils that have been ruining my favorite corner of my room since winter break. 

I’m excited. I don’t know what about, but I am. I’m delighted to finally have my room decorated for summer. The flowers under my windowsill and the sound of my dog barking outside bring me a joy that I haven’t felt since last fall.

It’s Sunday, and yet I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up at the mere thought of school tomorrow morning. It’s Sunday, and yet I’m not dreading tomorrow at all. 

I’m excited to see the sun again.