Ever find yourself in other places in the world — or even just neighboring states — when the weather is not the best? Rain pouring down like the sky cracked open, snow blanketing the earth in that deceptively quiet way, or temperatures so frigid it doesn’t matter how covered you are, you’re still cold — even sitting in your own house. And in those moments, you catch yourself doing it. The observation. The comparison. The mild-to-severe judgment.

How is it that this shuts everything down here?

A little rain and schools are closed. A dusting of snow and grocery shelves are suddenly bare. A whisper of ice and no one seems to know how to drive — hazards flashing, cars inching along as if they’re moving across buttered glass. And you think, they just don’t experience weather like we do.

Because we’re Ohioans.

We hate that we have to handle it. But we do.

All year, there were warnings about the kind of winter we were about to face. Forecasts filled with dramatic language. Maps shaded in ominous blues and purples.

We’re about a month in now, and while I have high hopes for an early end, I have a feeling this one’s going to stick around — whether or not that groundhog from our neighboring state sees his shadow.

And yet, here we are. Still standing. Still showing up. Still grumbling, but also — if we’re honest — still living our lives.

That’s the thing about Ohioans. We complain loudly, but we adapt quietly.

We know how to layer properly. We know which roads get plowed first. We know that if you wait 10 minutes, the weather might change entirely. We know how to keep moving even when the skies are gray and the sun feels like a rumor.

But here’s the part we don’t talk about enough: winter here isn’t just something to endure. It’s also something to use.

This is the season that gives us permission. Permission to slow down a little. Permission to lean into things that only make sense right now.

Take sledding, for example. There is something wildly freeing about flying down a hill in Mill Creek Park, laughing harder than you meant to, pretending for a moment that you don’t have responsibilities waiting at the bottom. It doesn’t require skill, equipment or training — just a sled, a hill and a willingness to be cold for a bit.

Or the joy of a spontaneous day trip north. Cleveland is right there, waiting with snow-covered slopes and ski runs that don’t ask you to be an expert. I will proudly admit: I thrive on the bunny hills. Give me a gentle slope, a little confidence and zero pressure to look impressive, and I’m having the best time. Snowboarding, skiing — whatever your version — there’s something empowering about trying, falling, laughing and getting back up again. Very on-brand for us, honestly.

And then there’s the food.

Winter is comfort-food season, and Ohio does it well. Soups that simmer all day. Bread that makes the house smell like warmth. Meals that don’t apologize for being hearty. My mouth is watering thinking about beef stew and chicken pot pie. This is not the time for sad salads. This is the time for dishes that stick with you, that warm you from the inside out, that feel like a small reward for braving the cold.

Ice skating. Snow walks. Steam rising from your coffee as you stand outside pretending you’re not freezing. Cozy nights in without guilt. Early bedtimes. Late-morning starts when you can swing them.

These are opportunities not to be missed.

Because resilience isn’t always about powering through. Sometimes it’s about finding joy where you are, with what you’ve been given — even when what you’ve been given is a long, gray winter.

Ohioans know how to do this. We’ve been doing it forever.

So yes, we’ll complain about the weather. We’ll shake our heads at drivers from elsewhere. We’ll roll our eyes at forecasts and groundhogs alike. But we’ll also sled the hills, eat the food, take the trips, lace up the skates and keep going.

From me to you — this season isn’t just something to survive. It’s something to live.

Mother, author, entrepreneur and founder of Dandelion-Inc, Lisa Resnick wants to hear your story. Share memories with her by emailing lisa@dandelion-inc.com.