Illustration by the author Elías Haig, shared with permission.

Having grown up in north-central Venezuela, with our notion of extreme cold is 15 degrees Celsius, suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), or the infamous “seasonal depression,” is one of the strangest experiences I have ever had. As a kid, I never imagined a day ending at 4:27 p.m., let alone believe that reduced daylight hours could make everything look so gray, literally and figuratively. In just a few weeks, the post-Yugoslav landscape of Mostar in Bosnia and Herzegovina changes from a picturesque cream to a more dystopian gray.

One minute, it’s September 15, and you’re happily swimming in the water with your friends, and the next, it’s October 15, and you’re grumbling under three coats. The ease with which weather can change lives never ceases to amaze me, yet this pleases me. After all, despite climate change, certainties are always appreciated. Although I never suffered from SAD growing up in Venezuela, I also had no certainties.

One day, in Venezuela, I was opening Christmas presents, the way it should be, surrounded by 25 relatives attending our family dinner. The next, I called my aunt just before she checked in at Maiquetía International Airport, trying not to cry, knowing I probably wouldn’t see her again for many years. Despite all the uncertainties surrounding me growing up, I never got used to it.

Living without knowing what will happen tomorrow is doable to a certain extent. Living knowing tomorrow is only going to get worse is not. No matter how normal it has become to see the Christmas dinner table getting smaller and smaller or how many friends I have said goodbye to, I don’t think there is any way of getting used to the pain of being Venezuelan. When I moved to Bosnia and Herzegovina in 2023, I thought the wounds would begin to heal.

What a mistake that was.

Bosnia is a country in turmoil. From the windows of my college, the United World College in Mostar, I can see the city’s central square, which has at least 1,000 bullet holes in its walls. The city remains de facto divided between Catholics and Muslims. As an international student, asking about local politics is practically impossible. When there is a soccer match, ethnic conflicts erupt into violent clashes, bringing the city to a complete standstill.

It’s impossible to forget about your own country in turmoil while in another. Swap Catholics and Muslims for chavistas (supporters of late president Hugo Chávez’ ideology) and opponents to understand how my city, Los Teques, works. If you count the number of bullet holes in Mostar city center, multiply it by two, and you will have an idea of the number of tear gas bombs that have landed in the courtyard of the building where I lived most of my life. No matter how much time passes or how much I deny it, Venezuela never leaves me.

January 10, the day set in the Venezuelan constitution as the Inauguration Day for new presidents, was the greatest proof of this. Yes, I may be suffering from SAD, but it certainly wasn’t the wind blowing at my window that kept me awake that night. Trying to explain what happened in Venezuela on January 10 is so simple that it’s hard to explain the insomnia of some thirty million souls worldwide. In literal terms, January 10 was just another day. But in reality, we lost hope. Once again.

On that day, Edmundo González, the rightful winner of the July 28 elections, was to be sworn in as the new president of Venezuela. However, this didn’t happen for a thousand reasons, and the will of more than seven million of us came to nothing. I got no sleep at all that night.

As my Venezuelan identity prevents me from putting my uncertainties and hopes aside, I refreshed X (formerly Twitter), Telegram, and WhatsApp, talked to my family, and debated with my friends. Yes, I admit, I spent the whole day hoping that something would happen and that the fog looming over my country for the last 25 years would suddenly lift. Even though this isn’t the first time we’ve been in a situation where being free was possible, or a legitimate president has been unable to take office, I was hopeful.

It’s a seasonal thing. Every now and then, an infestation of hope ends up spreading. Regardless of how many times I have tried to disengage, uninstalling all means of communication to try and forget that I care about my country, I always end up anxious. From watching planes on FlightRadar24, guessing what each private jet flying over Caracas will carry that day, to organizing outreach events wherever I am, I can’t help but be anxious and get carried away dreaming about a free Venezuela.

It feels almost as inevitable as SAD. Just like I get seasonally depressed in Mostar and can’t do anything about it, Venezuela gives me some hope, then disappoints me every time there is a political event offering some light at the end of the tunnel. I can’t avoid it. It’s a seasonal thing.

And yet, each season feels different. Whenever I get my hopes up for a better Venezuela, it seems more outrageous but necessary. With every event that appears to break the shackles around my country since before I was born, I can’t help but be mindlessly hopeful.

Unlike winter, the season of hope isn’t always the same. Winter is always cold, but hope never comes the same way twice. Sometimes, it comes from proceedings and sometimes from cryptic tweets, promising that a solution will fall from the sky, but it always comes.

While I cannot do anything about it, I go with the flow. No matter how often I am disappointed, I can’t help but believe my country will come to a resolution. It’s too tempting an opportunity to dismiss. If I don’t dismiss it, I can prepare for when I can do something.

Just like I buy vitamins and get my coats ready for winter in Mostar, I can’t help but do what I can to welcome the day our hopes become a reality. I can’t do much to get us there, but I’m doing all I can to be ready for when we are.

I do it because, just as winter passes, I believe our season will also someday come.