Richard Stride commentary: When the sun takes a break in Centralia

There’s a time of year in Centralia when the sky seems to pull a gray blanket up over its head and decide to stay there for a while.

You know what I’m talking about, right?

Not stormy. Not dramatic. Just present. A low ceiling of clouds that hangs on long enough to feel familiar — like an old neighbor who doesn’t knock anymore.

People sometimes ask, “Doesn’t the lack of sun get to you?”

The honest answer is: sometimes, yes.

Seasonal Affective Disorder — SAD, as it’s often called — sounds clinical, like something explained in a waiting room. But here, it feels less like a diagnosis and more like a rhythm. A shared understanding. You don’t need a label to notice when energy dips, when motivation feels heavier, or when evenings arrive earlier than expected, as if the day has quietly decided to call it quits.

What’s interesting is that I grew up with winter, too.

In Grand Junction, Colorado, winter mornings were cold and foggy. Not the dramatic snow-globe kind — just a dense, still fog that wrapped itself around everything. You could feel the cold before you saw it. Breath hanging in the air. Windshields frosted over. The sun was there somewhere, but it took its time showing itself.

My wife grew up in Sunnyside, Washington, and when she talks about those winters, I hear echoes of the same thing. Foggy mornings. Muted light. A slow start to the day. Different places, different landscapes — but a familiar quiet that settles in before the world fully wakes up.

As we are aware when winter settles over Centralia, it doesn’t feel entirely foreign. It feels like a cousin to those earlier seasons — just longer, grayer and a bit more persistent.

For my wife especially, sunlight has always mattered. Mood and light speak the same language, and when the sun goes missing for weeks at a time, the conversation changes. You notice it in small ways. A little less spark. A little more effort required just to get moving. Nothing dramatic — just a dimming around the edges.

And yet Centralia winters offer something else, too.

They slow things down. Coffee tastes warmer. Indoor lights feel softer. Conversations linger. Walks are quieter. The world grows smaller, and sometimes that’s exactly what we need.

We learn to adjust. Curtains get opened even when the light feels thin. We step outside anyway. We plan trips toward the sun when we can. We remind ourselves — sometimes gently, sometimes deliberately — that this season, like all others, has an end.

SAD doesn’t mean something is broken. Sometimes it simply means we’re human beings who were designed with sunlight in mind.

And when the clouds finally lift — and they always do — you notice something remarkable. Gratitude arrives first. You pause in a parking lot because the sun is on your face. You smile without realizing why. The light feels earned.

Until then, we do what people have always done in long winters.

We tend to one another.

We keep the lights on.

And we trust that brighter mornings are already on their way.

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Richard Stride is the current CEO of Cascade Community Healthcare