She had a fever and her face was ashen. It was 4pm and although I was concerned, I gave her Calpol, nestled her by my side and read her a story. It was early February. I was certain it was a bad cold and that all would be well. What I didn’t realise was that my two-year-old daughter had an infection in her brain. By midnight, she was having a prolonged seizure and didn’t regain consciousness for six hours. The week that followed is ingrained in my memory. We watched her through each night as her fever raged, an IV needle in her tiny hand. Things looked grave. Her notes read “Encephalitis”. I was five months pregnant. It was a dark, harrowing time.

There was no permanent damage to her brain. She recovered, but we were shaken. Then, seven months later, when my younger daughter was 11 weeks old, a close family member suffered a catastrophic brain injury. Memories from the six months that followed switch each of my neurons to horror mode. I played with a toddler while breastfeeding a tiny baby, simultaneously speaking to a consultant about the drugs required for enforced coma. We were told to prepare ourselves; that this person I loved would not survive. There was no visible structure left in her grey matter. We were told that we should grieve. Yet, she too survived. She woke up. She walked and spoke. The consultants could not fathom it. Life seemed utterly baffling and very, very fragile.

Despite both family members surviving, I began to associate the colder months with wall-eyed terror and a maelstrom of cortisol. I had a sense that I should have felt grateful and elated for their survival. And I was, but the following autumn, as the leaves began to turn, I experienced what I now realise was a strong neurological reaction: a reliving of what had happened. I began to dream of menacing trees made of mangled limbs. I became severely depressed and cripplingly anxious.

I had started a craft blog a few months earlier but didn’t write about how I was feeling. These were difficult subjects: the antithesis of the joy of a hand-knitted sock. I worried about alienating the small, but lovely community that had become a source of joy. I tried to continue to make things and blog about them, but was able to find neither words nor stitches. My blog stuttered, then fell silent. I am a biologist, an amateur botanist and a passionate nature-lover, yet I cowered indoors staring balefully at the grey skies through the window and longed for April. We live in a beautiful rural spot, but I didn’t go outside; I had no urge to do anything except care for my children and sleep.

I had long used craft to relax after a day at the office and knew that if I did pick up pliers or yarn and crochet hook that I would feel a little better. In a desperate search for anything that might lift my mood, I began to make myself make things: I reached for my tiny daughters’ Plasticine and made an ammonite; I borrowed their poster paints and daubed a blackbird; I baked fairy cakes. It dialled down the horror a little, so I cast about for materials and made more things. I ventured into the wood behind our cottage and noticed birds and trees and seedheads. The sight of them lifted my mood a little and diverted my brain away from the horrific memories of loved ones being close to death.

The following year, when I spotted the first leaves changing colour and I could feel my mood plummeting, I was terrified. I decided to try to fend it off. I was aware of seasonal affected disorder (Sad), knew that I had it and that its main cause was the decreased intensity of sunlight between November and March impacting serotonin levels in the brain, and that had been exacerbated by what had happened.

I began a project on my blog encouraging readers to share the ways in which they made the grey days of November a little easier. I called it Making Winter. Suddenly, my feed was full of crochet, cakes, handmade socks, embroidery and knitted dogs. I became aware of many in this small community alone who were, in effect, self-medicating using craft, just as I was.

Making was conferring a sense of achievement on dark, difficult days – but more than that, there is evidence that it confers a mental state similar to that induced by yoga or meditation, and can lift mood. Small, repetitive movements of hand and eye, such as those required to draw, paint, make crochet stitches or stir a cake mix, increase levels of serotonin and diminish cortisol. Indeed, there is a form of psychotherapy that harnesses the beneficial cognitive effects of the eye movements made during knitting in order to treat post-traumatic stress disorder.

Making seems to cause a shift in neurotransmitters that can bring calm and lift mood. The onset of the colder months has an effect on the energy levels and mood of about a third of the UK population. Many people experience mild symptoms and may simply feel a little sluggish or flat, but for about 7% of the population, the beginning of November can herald the onset of depression that can last until the sun’s intensity increases in spring. Getting outside for a walk in a green space most days will boost serotonin levels. And if that walk is combined with a creative activity, then the symptoms of winter blues can be assuaged further. I speak from experience.

Both making with my hands and being outside were inducing more positive thoughts during the dark days of January and February, and the effect was cumulative. Each stitch or even the briefest walk in the woods behind our house was helping to mend my brain and lift my mood. And others, too, were joining in or starting their own projects, using creativity to alleviate stress and the symptons of depressions. Getting involved in craft or baking, knitting or painting and spending time outdoors can only help to improve our mental health – whatever the season.

Making Winter: A Creative Guide for Surviving the Winter Months by Emma Mitchell is out now, published by LOM Art