As I sit here this morning, a heavy snow is falling for the first time this winter. This mean, at least in Kansas City, that people completely forget how to dress warmly, drive, be nice to others, and really function at a time like this.
A snow day used to be a blessed event. A windfall of laziness dropped into your lap like a sack of taters. You’d wake up to that special silence—the kind that comes when snow muffles the world like a giant has thrown a duvet over your entire neighborhood.
Then came the radio announcement, your school’s name read aloud like winning lottery numbers, and suddenly your day exploded into pure, unstructured possibility. Hot chocolate. Cartoons. Maybe building a fort. Definitely not math homework.
But somewhere between childhood and that soul-crushing thing called “career development,” we adults decided we’re too important for snow days. We have Zoom calls to attend in our pajama bottoms and business-casual tops. We have emails that simply cannot wait, even though they absolutely can and everyone knows it. We’ve got four-wheel drive and unreasonable confidence, so we white-knuckle our way to the office like we’re storming Normandy, except the enemy is black ice and our own hubris.
This is unsustainable. This is the death of innocence.
I’m proposing a radical solution: Adults need to reclaim the snow day. Not as a cute concept or a wistful memory, but as an actual, legitimate practice of calling in “snowed” and feeling zero guilt about it.
Think about it. When was the last time you experienced true, unplanned joy? Not scheduled fun—we’re soaking in that. I mean the kind of spontaneous delight that comes from plans being canceled FOR you, by nature herself, with no option to reschedule. It’s like the universe is your mother saying, “That’s enough now. You’re staying home and that’s final.” And you didn’t even have to fake an illness to get there.
Our mental health is hanging by a thread made of overpriced therapy and true-crime podcasts. We’re burning out faster than a dollar-store candle. And yet, when six inches of snow provides the perfect excuse to step off the hamster wheel for one blessed day, we suit up like arctic explorers and trudge forward anyway, martyrs to our own productivity obsession.
Children understand something we’ve forgotten: doing nothing is sometimes doing everything your soul needs. They don’t feel guilty about sledding at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday. They don’t check their email between snow angels. They just… exist. In the moment. In the snow. In the joy.
So here’s my modest proposal: Next time it snows—really snows—stay home. Make cocoa with an inappropriate number of marshmallows. Read that book. Watch that movie. Stare out the window like you’re in a Russian novel. Wear all of the fleece. Let your out-of-office message be delightfully vague about when you’ll return.
Because the spreadsheets will still be there tomorrow. The snow, and your sanity, might not.
(Get more from Chris Kamler, formerly The Fake Ned, on Twitter as @chriskamler)
