So, I’m sitting here working today, minding my own business, when I glance out the window and notice something weird. Tiny bits of white stuff are falling from the sky. My first thought: what the hell is that? Dust? Ash? Nuclear fallout? Did someone finally overcook Eau Claire’s cheese reserves?

Then it hit me.

Oh.

It’s snow.

Actual, honest-to-god snow — that frozen confetti the Midwest likes to dump on you every year until you forget what the ground looks like.

I haven’t seen snow in almost eight years. Eight years is long enough for denial to set in. You start to think maybe snow isn’t that bad. Maybe it’s even kind of magical. You forget the reality of it — the way it starts out looking peaceful and ends up becoming a hostile environmental takeover.

At first, I was mesmerized. The flakes danced in the air like they were auditioning for a Christmas card. I sat there, sipping my coffee, feeling oddly nostalgic. Then I remembered that nostalgia is just the brain’s way of lying to you.

Because behind that quiet beauty, I know what’s coming. Salt, slush, frozen door handles, the kind of wind that makes you rethink your life choices. And then there’s my personal favorite fear — getting my wheelchair stuck in a snow drift just because I wanted coffee.

See, back in Florida, if I wanted coffee, I’d just go. No drama. No logistics. No small internal monologue that sounded like:

“Okay, the snow looks light… but is that deceptive? Could that be the fluffy death-trap kind? What if I hit the wrong patch and suddenly I’m just… there? Alone. Tilted at a weird angle. Halfway to QuikTrip. Frozen like some weird arctic monument to poor decision-making?”

That’s a real thought now.

I can already picture it — me halfway between the apartment and QuikTrip, wheels spinning like a bad NASCAR pit stop, cursing the sky while some teenager in a lifted pickup drives by laughing. The snow will win. It always does.

But let’s back up. Eight years in Florida changes a person. Down there, the only white stuff that falls from the sky is bird poop. You trade ice scrapers for sunscreen and think you’ve outsmarted the weather. You forget the squeak of snow under tires, the sting of wind on your face, and that special brand of Midwestern cussing reserved exclusively for when you drop your keys in a snowbank.

When I left Wisconsin, I didn’t think I’d miss any of that. And yet, sitting here watching those first flakes fall, I felt this weird mix of awe and dread. Like bumping into an ex who looks great — but you remember exactly why you broke up.

Snow is beautiful right up until it tries to kill you. It hides ice like a con artist. It builds itself into drifts that look innocent until they swallow you whole. It turns curbs into traps and ramps into slip-and-slides. And as a wheelchair user, every outing becomes a calculated risk: Is caffeine worth dying for?

(Answer: probably. But I’d still like to avoid a “frozen Lucas” headline in the local paper.)

Still, there’s something poetic about it. Snow is nature’s reset button. It wipes away the dirt and chaos and gives everything a fresh coat of quiet. Even the ugliest parking lot suddenly looks peaceful. For about ten minutes, the world is calm. And then someone plows it all into an icy mountain blocking the sidewalk, and that calm evaporates faster than your patience.

I sat by the window for a while, watching it come down. It’s pretty, I’ll give it that. And there’s something kind of grounding about being back in a place where the weather actively wants to fight you. It’s like the universe is saying, “Welcome home. Here’s your annual reminder that you’re not in charge.”

I’ll take it. Even if it means stocking up on coffee before the next storm and making peace with the possibility that one day, I might have to radio for backup from a snowbank.

So yeah, the white stuff’s back. And so am I. May the odds — and the traction — be ever in my favor.

Have something to say? We welcome your comments below — this is where the real conversation happens.

Each blog post is shared across our social transmitters, but those are just bigger antennas. The original source — and the signal we control — is right here on the blog. If you’re looking for other ways to stay updated on Rolling with Scissors, you’ll find our official transmitters linked below.

Spin the dial — we’re probably on it. Lock onto your frequency. Pick your favorite antenna below and ride the signal back to us.

Facebook • Instagram • Threads • Bluesky • X (Twitter)