On December 23rd, 1888, Vincent van Gogh cut off part of his left ear.
The incident is often reduced to a punchline, a shorthand for the “mad artist.” That framing misses the point, though. What happened that winter night wasn’t eccentricity; it was the beginning of collapse.
Van Gogh had been battling what we would now recognize as severe mental illness: depression, anxiety, psychotic episodes, and prolonged isolation. This wasn’t a case of “winter blues,” though that phrase exists for a reason. Reduced daylight, social withdrawal, financial stress, and unmet expectations all converge this time of the year. For some people, that convergence is survivable; for others, it isn’t.
And many suffer quietly.
There’s an uncomfortable pattern that researchers have noted for decades: while December itself doesn’t always show the highest mortality rates, deaths often rise in the months after the holidays, particularly among the elderly. January and February see noticeable increases, in fact. Some attribute this to delayed medical care, others to exhaustion, loneliness, or the sudden absence of momentum once our society’s calendar year flips. Whether physiological or psychological, the effect is real enough to be measured.
Henry David Thoreau once described people as living lives of “quiet desperation.” The phrase still fits, especially now. The holidays amplify contrast between what life is supposed to look like and what it actually is. For those already carrying invisible weight, the season doesn’t always comfort; sometimes it presses even harder.
Van Gogh survived December 23rd, but his struggle didn’t end there.
In 1889, while voluntarily living at an asylum in Saint-Rémy, he painted The Starry Night, a work now reproduced endlessly on posters, coffee mugs, and classroom walls. The swirling sky is beautiful, but also restless, unsettled, almost agitated. Once a person knows the context, the painting reads differently, which is part of the quiet irony.
When Starry Night appears in places meant to comfort or nurture, there’s an unspoken sophistication to the choice. It’s not accidental; it’s a nod—a layered one. Art history finally earns its keep, and anyone who paid attention in that required Humanities course in college understands the joke now, even if they don’t say it out loud.
Van Gogh died less than two years after cutting off his ear. During his lifetime, he sold almost nothing. Today, he’s considered one of the most influential artists in history, and his works command millions of dollars at auction.
That doesn’t turn suffering into a virtue. It doesn’t romanticize pain, either. It does remind us of something easy to forget this time of year, though: Not all battles are loud, and not all despair announces itself. Not everyone who makes it through December is fine in January.
History doesn’t ask us to fix that. It only asks us to notice.
History doesn’t warn us. It just leaves the light on.