I Changed My Mind: Winter Should Be Over

I owe the Phoenix community a heartfelt apology. Last semester, I wrote an article titled “We Need To Be More Excited For Winter.” As of the day this has been published, it’s evident my article aged like milk.

The thing is, I’m not quite sure if Chicago winters are normal. Where I’m from — a sunny, Southern, kudzu-ridden Atlanta neighborhood — winter’s over by now. By early March, daffodils are blooming in hordes, birds are chirping and my perfectly warm backyard’s covered in a thin-yet-allergy-inducing film of bright yellow pollen. 

I’ve been thinking about Grant Park — not the Chicago one, the Atlanta one — a lot more recently, as the winter months drag on in the ever-snowy city I now call home. 

After all this ruminating about how hopeful and naive I was on Nov. 5, 2025 to publish such a polarizing piece while having no actual Chicago winter experience beyond one meager snowstorm, I’ve come to one concrete conclusion. 

I’ve changed my mind. The Chicago winter is too harsh on my thin southern skin, and the skepticism from my peers on my snow-related excitement was justified. The quiet charm in winter’s gloominess has worn thin and quickly become a nuisance.

Following a late-January snowstorm, the sun rose on Feb. 2 like it did any other day in wintry Chicago, yet still a shadow was cast on my hopes for spring. The culprit of this weather-fueled anguish? Groundhog Day. 

I’m inclined to believe the newfound hatred of my love-hate relationship with winter began with Punxsutawney Phil and his reluctance to allow the people of Chicago — as well as northerners and midwesterners alike — peace of mind and the end of winter. 

Groundhog Day aside, I seem to be having exceedingly unfortunate luck when it comes to being affected by the winter. If it weren’t for the record snowfall at the end of Thanksgiving Break, I wouldn’t have been stuck in Romulus, Michigan — home to the Detroit airport — after my plane was diverted coming home. 

On a deliciously warm and sunny day in early March, I realized this long winter might also be bringing out the worst in me. 

The often icy sidewalks have forced me into becoming a horrendously slow walker, eyes glued to the ground in search of a new slipping hazard. I can almost feel the annoyance radiating from each passerby who overtake me on the sidewalk.

The cold bite of wind on my face has molded my expression into something of a perpetual glare, wincing against the unforgiving gusts. 

Beyond the annoyance of becoming a sidewalk pest and having an RBF, I miss the serene beauty of Chicago in the summer. 

Winter lacks the joy of outdoor community summer boasts. Frigid temperatures force Chicagoans to stay sequestered in their respective homes, missing the human connection which comes with a game of pickup soccer in a grassy field. 

During the summer, it felt like so many Chicago residents were out and about, sunbathing by the lake, biking down The 606 or walking through flower-filled neighborhoods. The seeming happiness which radiated from each and every resident was infectious. 

Now, I can see why everyone seemed so happy to be outside. Summer’s a fleeting thing, and citizens are taking advantage of the warm weather before the city freezes over. 

While I cherished my first real winter — until about February, then I got tired of it — I miss the beauty summer brings. I miss the warm, gold-toned palette seemingly painting every park and building in this charming city.

I miss seeing naturally green things. Without the lush greenery blanketing every park and yard, the city feels barren. And I definitely miss the effortless peace of reading an overly pretentious book on the quad. 

Sure, in November, we should’ve been more excited for winter, but now, as the first hints of warmer weather are on the horizon, one can’t help but be relieved the end is in sight, and the bitter cold will finally begin to wear off.