The Blizzard Outside Is Fine, It’s the One in My Brain That’s the Problem

My earliest memory of a snow day is pure, uncomplicated joy. Snow meant building a snowman, no school, and maybe a snowball fight. It meant cosy socks and jumpers by the radiator, pressing my cold, sopping feet against its warmth, getting chilblains and not caring. The day was easy, small, joyous. No anxiety. No obligations. Just snow.

Then I got a little older, and snow started to get complicated. My house sits right by the mountains and catches snow first, making the roads treacherous. Classmates came from all over, oblivious to the danger. Teachers seemed to take no notice. And there I was, heart thumping, watching the roads get worse by the minute. Relief only came when my mum appeared, whisking me home. Once there, the sanctuary returned and snow was joyful again.

As I grew older, home stopped feeling like a sanctuary. Hours stretched endlessly. My mind — always active, always restless — demanded constant stimulation. Snow days became less about coziness and more about boredom and anxiety.

Then came employment, then the deep chaos of chef life. My coping mechanism for stress and the demands of work? Create more chaos. Constant motion became necessary; work became my sanctuary, not home. Silence, stillness, inactivity — now terrifying.

One memorable snowy day during that time, I woke at 5am and convinced myself my tiny rust bucket of a car could navigate the winding, slippery, sometimes lethal lanes to get to work. My parents called me irrational and stupid, but I couldn’t contemplate being stuck at home all day when work would give me the stimulation I needed. So off I went, starting the 50-minute drive… only to get stuck less than five minutes from my village. Despite all my effort and anxiety, my employer — with zero sympathy — let me go. Truly the universe’s messiest punchline.

Fast forward a year or two, and another snowy morning finds me faced with the same white blanket outside. I step outside, test the car, reassure myself. The wipers don’t work, but all I have to do is brush the thick, heavy snow off — simple! I tell my parents it’s fine and say goodbye as they leave in their competent car, assuming I’ll follow in half an hour.

The snow gets heavier. My mum texts to ask if it’s still snowing. I stare at the blizzard before my eyes and type back only a little. A friendly neighbour comes knocking, presumably to warn me of what is already obvious. So of course I hide in the hallway, finishing my banana on toast like some kind of guilty raccoon. I wait for him to leave, head towards the door — and then my parents inform me they’re returning. The jig is up.

Determined to salvage the day, I shed my work clothes, put on a jacket, hat, and scarf, and venture out for a walk. By the time I return, I’m sodden and freezing, but the walk has at least regained a little of my childhood joy. And yet, as the house looms closer, the creeping anxiety of having nothing to occupy my time starts to coil in my stomach. The thought of sorting my wet clothes, and then finally facing the inevitable void of the day — trying to fill it with activity — claws at me.

And now here I am, standing by the table, writing it all down with a quiet determination to find joy in the day. I share some of my snow-day anxiety with my sister and her response says it all: “Are you kidding me? I’d love a day off.”A day off — the thing workers crave, the real sanctuary and joy — and here I am recoiling from it like it’s radioactive. I consider how backwards my life has become, how the coping mechanism continues to hold me in the prison of my own creating.

It’s not just about snow days. It’s sick days. Floods. Anything that prevents me from going to work. The cocktail of feelings is the same: guilt for not being in the trenches, anxiety about income, and the utterly nonsensical, unhealthy need to constantly be active and productive. And maybe, finally, the small realisation: a day at home doesn’t have to be a nightmare. It can just be… a day at home.