While the headlines scream summer solstice, some of us are lighting heaters, not bonfires. Down here in the Southern Hemisphere, June 20 marks the winter solstice: the longest night of the year.
This astronomical event has deep roots in science, myth, and the Earth’s very geometry.
What is the winter solstice, exactly?
At its core, the solstice is a tilt problem.
Earth spins on a tilted axis (about 23.5 degrees) which means different parts of the planet receive sunlight at different intensities throughout the year.
On June 20 (or 21, depending on the year), the Southern Hemisphere is tilted the farthest away from the sun. That’s why we get the least amount of daylight and the longest, coldest night.
While the Northern Hemisphere celebrates its summer solstice (hi, Americans roasting marshmallows), we’re over here contemplating life by gas heater.
A cold day and a cosmic moment
The solstice isn’t a full-day event. It’s a precise astronomical moment: when the sun reaches its lowest point in our sky at solar noon.
In 2025, that moment hits at 10:51 p.m. SAST.
No, you don’t need to set an alarm. You probably won’t see anything spectacular unless you’re measuring shadow lengths with a sundial.
But symbolically? It’s huge.
Ancient civilizations built temples, monuments, and rituals around solstices.
Think Stonehenge (summer alignment), Machu Picchu, or the Nabta Playa circle in Egypt.
Down south, Indigenous communities also observed seasonal markers. This was often tied to weather patterns, food cycles, and spiritual practices.
What happens after the solstice?
The good news: days start getting longer from here. Slowly.
You won’t notice the difference overnight, but the sun will start rising earlier and setting later as we inch toward spring.
Of course, if you’re in Cape Town, the weather won’t care. Expect rain, wind, and betrayal.
But solstices are less about weather and more about sunlight.
The Earth’s dance around the sun continues, and this moment is our halfway marker. Think of it as a pause to acknowledge the dark before we climb back toward the light.
It’s quite poetic
In a climate where everything feels unhinged (politics, prices, load-shedding schedules) the solstice is a rare certainty.
The tilt doesn’t change.
The orbit stays on track.
It’s a reminder that we’re part of something bigger than our inboxes and AI doomscrolling.
So tonight, pour something warm, step outside if you can, and honour the longest night.
The Earth’s still spinning.
You’re still here.
That counts for something.