A Complicated Relationship with Snow
By Nicole Stewart
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025
When you are young, snow seems to embrace you. It is magic—stunning—a brilliant beauty that you are too naïve to call a danger. Perhaps you should. Perhaps, you know that the snow will not hurt you unless you give it a reason too.
You know this, for certain, when you are six. That winter is brutal. There are nine-foot drifts pressed up against the side door of your one-story house … snow stacked so high that your parents can’t open any of the doors for days. When you are older, you know that most of the state got over three feet of snow. When you are older, you hear the words blizzard and fatalities and devastating … and you understand what that means. But for now, you are six, and all you know is the silence. The cold does not come in from the outside, and you think that snow makes everything seem peaceful.
Nothing can touch you … any of you … with the drifts pressed to the doors and the world blanketed in blissful, gentle quiet.
Then you are seven, eight, nine. Snow is a glorious thing—wet and pliable—delicate yet indestructible. You go out in it for hours—forced into a coat and mittens—but you do not feel the cold. All you know is the freedom, the way it feels to sink knee-deep into drifts, and the tickle of the flakes against your cheeks. Not a firm touch, but never light enough to bring the crawling feeling to your skin. Gentle, careful. Always watching … always surrounding.
You are ten, and the snow still holds its magic. Your parents complain, because there’s no getting off the second-highest point in Crawford County when it snows. Snow means Mom is afraid to go to work, and you and Dad pull long hours, getting up early and staying awake for late enough to bring her back and forth from work. She could do it, in the lighter snows, but she is afraid. One too many times of sliding all the way down that hill, or into someone’s driveway along the way. But Dad is not afraid. Your car has four-wheel drive, and he knows that is all it takes. He is not afraid, and so you are not afraid. And, when he slides down the hill one day, on the way back from dropping Mom off, you know he will try again. The snow will not hurt him or you. Not as long as the fear stays buried.
You are eleven, digging fearlessly through the snow with mitten-covered hands. Sometimes, it makes your joints ache. For ten more years, you will not understand why. For now … oh, for now you will not care. All that matters is being surrounded, cradled, embraced on all sides by the snow. You dig out forts and tunnels in snow drifts, until they are deep and wide enough to fit you and your four-foot-six-inch self. You are still small for your age, but you know no other kids to prove it against. It doesn’t matter. You have the snow … surrounding you on all sides, and blocking off the noise and the wind. You sit until Dad calls for you … says he can’t see you, and that you will freeze if you stay out too long. You know you won’t, because you have no fear of the snow. It will protect you … support you … if you do the same for it.
You are thirteen, being pulled behind Dad’s four-wheeler on a sled. You and your little cousin laugh, laugh, laugh because Dad’s friend drives fast, and the wind feels otherworldly against your cheeks. It whips up snow—soft and powdery—to crust across your coat. By the time you finish flying across the fields and back through the countryside, both coats have begun to change color. You laugh some more, because it seems like magic even still … the way your purple and your cousin’s brown coats become just as buried as the landscape. It is beautiful, just as stunning as the endless canvas of white that spreads around you.
And then, you turn fourteen. You are an eighth-grader, in the midst of several life changes. Mom’s cancer, your first year of public school, and changes, changes, changes. It is the first year you are ever frightened by the snow.
Mom and Dad go to the barn, to check on the animals, like they do all of the time. It is normal, routine, expected. You know they will be safe, even with eighteen inches of snow on the ground. When Dad says to stay inside, and not to come out unless they are still gone at sunset, you listen. You always follow the rules. So, when the sun starts to go down, and they have not returned, you leave the house. You don’t know that something is wrong, but it must be. Dad broke his word … said they would be back, and they are not. Nothing is wrong, but you don’t know unless you check.
You do not think the walk will be a problem. You’ve walked to the barn, right across from your Mimi’s house, a hundred thousand times. It doesn’t matter that you have less vision than most people, or that you’re still too young and naïve to know how much you truly don’t have. You know this path as clearly as you can recall your own name.
So, you leave, and you walk. You wear your coat and your gloves and your boots, even though you were never bothered by the cold. You know you must, with wind chills down near zero. What you do not account for is the snow … the way it turns the entire world to white on white, on white on white. You are stunned—disoriented—and for the first time in your life, you get lost trying to find the barn.
You don’t understand … the snow has never trapped you like this before. It does not make sense … the thing that has always brought quiet, calm, and peace has now made it a mission to consume you.
You think you should stop, but you know it is too cold for that, and so you wander. Years later, you know this is, potentially, a much worse thing to do. But at fourteen … at fourteen, you are scared. Sensibility has long since abandoned you.
Somehow, Dad sees you. Somehow, Mom gets out of the car and walks across the field to reclaim you. There is yelling … a thousand different warnings to never do that again. They were safe and prepared, taking their time at the barn, and driving back slowly. But you … you were nearly lost amidst the storm.
Now, you are afraid of snow. Now, you are fifteen, and you do not play in the drifts anymore. Now, when your younger cousin visits on winter break, you do not have the itch to fly across the countryside through the strong, all-consuming winds.
Now, you are sixteen, and you wake from a dream. You see the barn … the barn … and you know that it is burning. You tell yourself it is a terror, brought on by nine inches of freshly-fallen snow, and you put yourself back to sleep. You wake up, watch your parents leave to check on the animals, and find out that the barn is gone. Taken to the ground … nothing left to save. You keep yourself awake for hours … endless nights of guilt and what-ifs, until you can believe that it’s not your fault. If the snow had not fallen so thickly, and the world been so obscured, your parents might have seen it in time. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
You force yourself to believe. The dream is a coincidence. It’s too late to ever change the past. And no one is to blame. The snow … the snow … the snow made this disaster what it came to be.
Seventeen, eighteen, and into college. Still, you fear the snow. Now, you despise it … that gentle, loyal companion that surrounded you in your youth. You loathe it- … could live the rest of your life, and never care to see it again.
But slowly, you learn the laws of nature. It does no good to fear the snow, or to harbor a hatred for it. The snow will always return for you … gentle, if you allow it to be, and ruthless, if you show it how vehemently you dislike it.
Now, you are twenty-six, and in another state. Now, you cannot see the horrific beauty of white on white, on white on white. You cannot get lost in it that way. You hear the silence … the way the precipitation blocks all noise and mutes the world. Your mother makes snow cream, the way she always does when a large snow falls, and suddenly … you remember how it felt to be six. Now you make a batch of snow cream, and something small and insignificant nudges at your memory.
You remember the quiet and the calm, and you remember the magic. For one, precious moment, you can recall how it felt to never be afraid.
You know this, for certain, when you are six. That winter is brutal. There are nine-foot drifts pressed up against the side door of your one-story house … snow stacked so high that your parents can’t open any of the doors for days. When you are older, you know that most of the state got over three feet of snow. When you are older, you hear the words blizzard and fatalities and devastating … and you understand what that means. But for now, you are six, and all you know is the silence. The cold does not come in from the outside, and you think that snow makes everything seem peaceful.
Nothing can touch you … any of you … with the drifts pressed to the doors and the world blanketed in blissful, gentle quiet.
Then you are seven, eight, nine. Snow is a glorious thing—wet and pliable—delicate yet indestructible. You go out in it for hours—forced into a coat and mittens—but you do not feel the cold. All you know is the freedom, the way it feels to sink knee-deep into drifts, and the tickle of the flakes against your cheeks. Not a firm touch, but never light enough to bring the crawling feeling to your skin. Gentle, careful. Always watching … always surrounding.
You are ten, and the snow still holds its magic. Your parents complain, because there’s no getting off the second-highest point in Crawford County when it snows. Snow means Mom is afraid to go to work, and you and Dad pull long hours, getting up early and staying awake for late enough to bring her back and forth from work. She could do it, in the lighter snows, but she is afraid. One too many times of sliding all the way down that hill, or into someone’s driveway along the way. But Dad is not afraid. Your car has four-wheel drive, and he knows that is all it takes. He is not afraid, and so you are not afraid. And, when he slides down the hill one day, on the way back from dropping Mom off, you know he will try again. The snow will not hurt him or you. Not as long as the fear stays buried.
You are eleven, digging fearlessly through the snow with mitten-covered hands. Sometimes, it makes your joints ache. For ten more years, you will not understand why. For now … oh, for now you will not care. All that matters is being surrounded, cradled, embraced on all sides by the snow. You dig out forts and tunnels in snow drifts, until they are deep and wide enough to fit you and your four-foot-six-inch self. You are still small for your age, but you know no other kids to prove it against. It doesn’t matter. You have the snow … surrounding you on all sides, and blocking off the noise and the wind. You sit until Dad calls for you … says he can’t see you, and that you will freeze if you stay out too long. You know you won’t, because you have no fear of the snow. It will protect you … support you … if you do the same for it.
You are thirteen, being pulled behind Dad’s four-wheeler on a sled. You and your little cousin laugh, laugh, laugh because Dad’s friend drives fast, and the wind feels otherworldly against your cheeks. It whips up snow—soft and powdery—to crust across your coat. By the time you finish flying across the fields and back through the countryside, both coats have begun to change color. You laugh some more, because it seems like magic even still … the way your purple and your cousin’s brown coats become just as buried as the landscape. It is beautiful, just as stunning as the endless canvas of white that spreads around you.
And then, you turn fourteen. You are an eighth-grader, in the midst of several life changes. Mom’s cancer, your first year of public school, and changes, changes, changes. It is the first year you are ever frightened by the snow.
Mom and Dad go to the barn, to check on the animals, like they do all of the time. It is normal, routine, expected. You know they will be safe, even with eighteen inches of snow on the ground. When Dad says to stay inside, and not to come out unless they are still gone at sunset, you listen. You always follow the rules. So, when the sun starts to go down, and they have not returned, you leave the house. You don’t know that something is wrong, but it must be. Dad broke his word … said they would be back, and they are not. Nothing is wrong, but you don’t know unless you check.
You do not think the walk will be a problem. You’ve walked to the barn, right across from your Mimi’s house, a hundred thousand times. It doesn’t matter that you have less vision than most people, or that you’re still too young and naïve to know how much you truly don’t have. You know this path as clearly as you can recall your own name.
So, you leave, and you walk. You wear your coat and your gloves and your boots, even though you were never bothered by the cold. You know you must, with wind chills down near zero. What you do not account for is the snow … the way it turns the entire world to white on white, on white on white. You are stunned—disoriented—and for the first time in your life, you get lost trying to find the barn.
You don’t understand … the snow has never trapped you like this before. It does not make sense … the thing that has always brought quiet, calm, and peace has now made it a mission to consume you.
You think you should stop, but you know it is too cold for that, and so you wander. Years later, you know this is, potentially, a much worse thing to do. But at fourteen … at fourteen, you are scared. Sensibility has long since abandoned you.
Somehow, Dad sees you. Somehow, Mom gets out of the car and walks across the field to reclaim you. There is yelling … a thousand different warnings to never do that again. They were safe and prepared, taking their time at the barn, and driving back slowly. But you … you were nearly lost amidst the storm.
Now, you are afraid of snow. Now, you are fifteen, and you do not play in the drifts anymore. Now, when your younger cousin visits on winter break, you do not have the itch to fly across the countryside through the strong, all-consuming winds.
Now, you are sixteen, and you wake from a dream. You see the barn … the barn … and you know that it is burning. You tell yourself it is a terror, brought on by nine inches of freshly-fallen snow, and you put yourself back to sleep. You wake up, watch your parents leave to check on the animals, and find out that the barn is gone. Taken to the ground … nothing left to save. You keep yourself awake for hours … endless nights of guilt and what-ifs, until you can believe that it’s not your fault. If the snow had not fallen so thickly, and the world been so obscured, your parents might have seen it in time. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
You force yourself to believe. The dream is a coincidence. It’s too late to ever change the past. And no one is to blame. The snow … the snow … the snow made this disaster what it came to be.
Seventeen, eighteen, and into college. Still, you fear the snow. Now, you despise it … that gentle, loyal companion that surrounded you in your youth. You loathe it- … could live the rest of your life, and never care to see it again.
But slowly, you learn the laws of nature. It does no good to fear the snow, or to harbor a hatred for it. The snow will always return for you … gentle, if you allow it to be, and ruthless, if you show it how vehemently you dislike it.
Now, you are twenty-six, and in another state. Now, you cannot see the horrific beauty of white on white, on white on white. You cannot get lost in it that way. You hear the silence … the way the precipitation blocks all noise and mutes the world. Your mother makes snow cream, the way she always does when a large snow falls, and suddenly … you remember how it felt to be six. Now you make a batch of snow cream, and something small and insignificant nudges at your memory.
You remember the quiet and the calm, and you remember the magic. For one, precious moment, you can recall how it felt to never be afraid.