Virginia Snowmageddon That Wasn’t: How We Prepped for 20 Inches of Snow and Got 3

For an entire week, my weather app promised destruction. Not just snow—Snowmageddon.

We’re talking 17–21 inches of the fluffy white stuff, topped with nearly an inch of ice for good measure. A real end-times forecast.

Now, as someone with New Jersey roots, this sounded less like a crisis and more like a cozy winter wonderland. But I live in Virginia now, and Virginia hears “snow” and responds by politely shutting down civilization for an undetermined amount of time. So naturally, I panicked responsibly.

Preparation mode: activated.

Candles? Bought. Batteries? Stocked. Propane? Checked. Blackstone grill? Hauled into the garage because when the power goes out, we will still eat like champions.

My husband and sons stacked wood in the garage and on the deck like we were preparing for Little House on the Prairie: The Reboot. The wood stove would burn. The house would stay warm. Because—say it with me—the power was definitely going to go out.

I placed four Walmart delivery orders. Four. Because even though I was working, I had to ensure we wouldn’t starve during the inevitable days (possibly weeks) we’d be trapped inside due to untreated roads. Virginia does, in fact, get snow—but seems to believe salt is optional and sand is… helpful? (It is not.)

And of course, school. Snow in the forecast means schools close preemptively out of an abundance of caution, fear, and vibes. I fully expected my kids to be home for at least a week. Possibly two. So, I bought snacks. And then more snacks. And then snacks for the snacks.

Then there was the puppy.

What if the snow offended her delicate sensibilities? What if she flat-out refused to pee or poop outside? Emergency Publix run for puppy pads, because nothing says “prepared adult” like panic-buying absorbent squares at the last minute.

By Saturday night, we were ready. We were pioneers. We were survivors.

Around 11 p.m., it started flurrying as my husband and I headed to bed. I thought, Here it is. The northern Yankee girl in me felt alive. I drifted off dreaming of knee-deep snow and canceled everything.

I woke up, peeked outside, and saw white. Exciting! Magical! Then I put my glasses on.

Three inches. And that’s being generous.

What in the actual f***?

Then it sleeted. All day. Not the dramatic ice storm we were promised—just enough to be annoying and slippery and smug. The ice did eventually come, but you know what didn’t?

The power never went out.

My candles still sit on the counter, unused. Mocking me.

The kids are out of school, of course. They sledded approximately a gazillion times down the neighbor’s front lawn hill. Hot chocolate flowed freely. My floors are now a modern art exhibit titled Salt, Slush, and Regret.

The puppy learned she could pee directly on the deck—which is incredibly convenient for me and incredibly unfortunate for future training efforts.

And my kids? They remain deeply confused as to why they are off school, but I am not off work. Truly baffling. A mystery for the ages.

Am I a little irritated that I mentally prepared for a massive storm and got… this? Yes. I was ready for a big whopper and left with a few inches.

But honestly? Better safe than sorry.

And would you look at that—the forecast is calling for more snow this weekend.

Candles still ready.

Snacks still stocked.

Virginia still Virginia.