East Coast Blizzard of 2026

I’ve lived in North Carolina for 10 years. In that decade, we’ve had snow three times. Three. Times. That’s not a typo. THREE. And this year? Fifteen inches. Fifteen. Inches. My jaw is still on the floor.

Let me be honest: I love snow. I absolutely love it. It’s magical. It’s soft. It makes everything look like a winter wonderland postcard. You can build a snowman, make snow angels, take cute Instagram pictures—heck, I’d even go sledding if I had a sled. But there’s a catch. Snow is like that one friend who’s fun at first but overstays their welcome…except this time, they brought fifteen of their cousins.

I get tired of it. Fast. One hot chocolate in, five minutes of shivering, and I’m done. I hate being frozen. I hate feeling like my face is turning into a popsicle. I hate not having a fireplace. I hate the sidewalk ice that turns every walk into a scene from a slapstick comedy in which I’m the star, slipping and flailing, questioning all my life choices.

And don’t get me started on the panic. North Carolina loses its collective mind at the hint of snow. Milk? Gone. Bread? Vanished. Eggs? Might as well be unicorn eggs—they’re that rare. People driving like maniacs, stores looking like the grocery apocalypse hit first, neighbors stocking up as if snow is some ancient curse that will never end…Calm down, Karen. We are not in the Arctic. It’s snow, not the end of the world.

But here’s where my snow story got…personal. My rooster, Jet—yes, Jet, my pride and joy—decided that deep snow was the perfect place for adventure. Somehow, he ventured out of his safe, cozy coop and got stuck in the middle of the snowdrift. I saw him flapping frantically and knew I had to save him.

So there I was, trudging through fifteen inches of snow like a hero in a low-budget action movie, when I didn’t see a hidden hole beneath the snow. One second I was striding toward Jet, the next I was sinking, briefly trapped, flailing like some cartoon character that forgot how gravity works. Jet looked at me, probably judging me, as I wriggled my way out, half-snowed-in and fully embarrassed, only to finally scoop him up like a tiny, frozen victory.

By day three, I was done. I love snow, but I am over it. It’s like a fling that started with butterflies and ended with frostbite. Melt, snow. I said what I said. Seriously. I’ve loved you, but you can leave now.

So yes, fifteen inches of snow. I loved it. I hated it. I froze. I panicked. I watched my neighbors panic. I saved a rooster and almost became a snow monster in the process. And now? I just want it gone. Melt, North Carolina snow. Melt. I said it.

Note to snow: It’s not you, it’s me.

See video on TikTok.

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