It feels strange to say this in February, but winter barely feels like winter this year. I keep waiting for that first real storm—the kind that blankets everything in white and muffles the world into silence—but so far, it hasn’t come.

We’ve had a few teasing moments. A couple of days where snow sprinkled down lightly, just enough to dust the rooftops and tempt the kids into excitement. But by afternoon, it had already melted away, leaving behind wet pavement and disappointment. There have been one or two rainy days, too, which somehow feel even more wrong this time of year. The temperatures have hovered in that in-between space, rarely dipping to freezing, as if the season just can’t fully commit.

Living in a state known for its incredible skiing makes it all feel even more surreal. Normally, this time of year is defined by powder days, mountain traffic, and social media filled with bright blue skies over snow-covered peaks. Winter here is usually something you can count on. It’s part of our identity. Without the snow, it feels like we’re missing something essential—like a holiday that never arrived.

What makes the contrast sharper is watching the news and seeing the massive snowstorm hitting New York. While they’re digging out from under feet of snow, we’re stepping around puddles and wondering if we should even bother pulling out the heavy coats. It’s a strange split-screen reality: blizzards on one side of the country, bare lawns on the other.

Maybe the snow will still come. Maybe March will surprise us. But for now, this snowless winter feels unsettling—like a season that showed up late, forgot its lines, and quietly exited the stage.