The Newly Annual Texas Snow

Growing up in Texas, snow came about once every five years. As a kid, there was much excitement waking up to a white backyard. It meant one thing: school canceled. A week full of freedom. And because it happened so rarely, each snow day felt nostalgic the moment it arrived. Snow created space for magic and adventure; it interrupted routine. 

As I’ve grown older, the snowstorms have become more frequent. Now in college, we seem to get one every year. The most memorable was 2021. My house lost power and drinking water for four days. With Zoom classes normalized, the expectation was that students could simply attend class from home. I sat wrapped in a blanket, watching my laptop battery slowly drain, and told my art teacher I couldn’t paint because I had no running water. She suggested I scoop snow from outside and let it melt. At the time, the request felt absurd. But looking back, it was less about the assignment and more about adapting. If there's a will, there's a way. Sometimes you work with what you have.

Texans are not built for cold. The moment snow is predicted, we rush to get groceries and gas. Roads freeze, power is lost. It exposes how dependent we are on the systems around us. They feel permanent until they are not. 

Yet there is another side to it.

A snow day for a college student is the sweet spot. Walking distance from friends and all obligations paused. Just hats, gloves, and the kind of laughter that only happens when everyone collectively decides the day is strictly play. I went sledding before the ice hardened the hills. Sliding down on cardboard - pulled from my neighbor’s recycling and wrapped in a trash bag - felt electric. Simple things often bring the most joy.

Later, we lay flat in the alley behind my friend's house and attempted to make snow angels (more like ice angels). The ground had already hardened, so there was no hope for a snowman either. 

As much fun as it is, snow still carries a quiet warning. I think back to a middle school English exam, reading Jack London's To Build a Fire. A man underestimates the wilderness, assumes he can manage the cold, and dies when his fire goes out. The test asked for the theme. I chose: do not underestimate the power of nature. That line returns to me whenever I feel uneasy outside (or whenever Texas freezes).

Snow softens everything. The usual hum of traffic disappears. Sound gets absorbed into the ground. A layer of white covers the Bermuda grass and moss in my side yard. When it melts, the plants stand as if nothing happened, smiling back at the sun again. The only sound that unsettles me is the sharp crunch of ice under my boots. It sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the temperature. There’s something about that brittle, splintering sound that makes my whole body tense. 

One night during the freeze, walking home from a friend’s house, I noticed how bright the sky was. It was nearly two in the morning. The moon was only a waxing crescent, yet the entire horizon glowed a pale Davy’s Gray, almost metallic in tone. The snow reflected the light upward, softly illuminating power lines and rooftops. The air felt clearer as I watched my breath rise and disappear. Texas seemed rearranged, as if someone had placed it under unfamiliar lighting.

In Walden, Thoreau writes that he “went to the woods because [he] wished to live deliberately.” I imagine that living that deliberately requires stepping outside daily routine. Snow forces this, even in a city. Thoreau urges his reader to live simply and consciously, in closer relationship with the natural world. Perhaps this snowstorm was a reminder that not every day must be spent striving toward what comes next.

Snow in Texas is both invitation and warning. It gives us sledding and stillness. It is also a reminder that we are not in control. 

For a few days, everything pauses. And in that pause, I see, and love, Texas more clearly than before.