Winter Storm Reflections:
Ice, Memory, and Community in the South
This weekend, from Texas up the East Coast, much of the South experienced a winter storm—mostly ice (in the North was snow). It’s Monday as I write this, and if you looked outside, you might never know a storm had passed at all.
I’ve lived through several storms, but this one felt different. The warnings were clear and taken seriously. I couldn’t help but wonder if recent years of extreme weather—and the consequences of ignored warnings—have made people more attentive. From the girls’ camp built in a dry riverbed to the unexpected hurricane path through the North Carolina mountains, the lessons have been hard and public.
That was the first difference I noticed.
People kept calling this a “once-in-a-lifetime” storm, yet I remember a significant ice storm in 2014. I was living on the North Carolina coast and was supposed to start a new job in Northern Virginia on Monday, the storm hit Saturday. Despite being advised to stay home—and knowing there was little road salt in my area—I went anyway. After talking to HR, I felt guilty not being there on Monday. What should have been a 45-minute drive took nearly two hours, inching along icy roads without plows.
Maybe time has softened that memory. Or maybe this 2026 storm simply stretched farther.
Another difference stood out: people helping people. I noticed constant posts offering advice—how to stay warm, how to cook if the power went out, how to get through the cold safely. Storms used to feel isolating to me. This one felt communal.
I’ve also been trying to focus on the positives. Since entering post-menopause, sleep hasn’t come easily. But during this storm, the cold air helped me rest deeply. For the first time in a long while, I woke up feeling restored.
I’m grateful that while we did get ice, it wasn’t as severe as in Tennessee or Mississippi, and power outages here were minimal. My prayers are with those who weren’t as fortunate.
What ultimately made this storm feel different was preparedness—and company. I’m here with my folks, and that matters. I ran my car early, scraped ice off with bare hands (a mistake), and laughed at how out of practice I am with winter weather.
Still, it was heartening to see the monks continuing their journey from Texas to Washington, D.C., despite the conditions. A quiet reminder that sometimes, moving forward—carefully—is its own kind of courage.
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