It was so eerie and still when it first started – the Nashville Ice Storm of 2026. The snow had already fallen, but I don’t consider that the real start of the storm – at least not for us. Because the snow was fun. The temps were still in the mid-20’s. The enormous hills half a block away were growing more and more festive with the communal thrill of a rare snowfall. The neighborhood always turns out whenever there is a snow in Nashville – kids and adults stream up our street on their way to the golf course dragging sleds, plastic storage bins, even a ripped off car hood, once.
But after the soft, friendly snow was done falling, the freezing rain began. This is where everything went sideways – you could just feel the world shifting. The first clue, besides the restless pinging of frozen rain like fingernails on a tabletop, was the otherwise silence. No more victorious whoops, no more dogs chasing happy sledders. The drilling and jackhammering of our neighbor’s year-long construction, finally stopped. No cars. Not even the thrum of streetlights.
Then, the awful falling of trees began. Their fragile branches now frozen, sagged, then cracked sickeningly – their ice-heavy branches ringing out like gunshots into the frigid air. The violent crash of entire trees followed, along with blowing and popping transformers.
Bad was rapidly turning to worse.
But, we woke up the next morning with the happy realization that we still had power. Yes!
Just minutes later, the house suddenly stilled. 7:30am, Sunday morning would be the end of power for us. No heat. No hot showers. No hot coffee. No WIFI.
Over the next few hours, you could feel the single digit outside, sucking the heat from our house like through a straw. We watched the thermostat sink despondently.
As I write this, we’re on day four without power. We can see our breath inside the house. Our toes are permanently popsicled by this house that used to shelter us so well. These days, our house feels like a different person entirely. Two faced. Like someone you used to love who one day turned on you. And it’s not just our house. Knowing that multiple friends just blocks away have had power this whole time has brought out this bitterness in me that I didn’t know was there. Despite their kindness in offering to take us in, I’m bitter. It’s not fair.
Fair. I know how that sounds – what’s fairness? All of this makes me think of my unhoused friends. They live this exposed reality every day and without the luxury of even a house. And forget about the kindness of friends – they ran out of the generosity of friends a long time ago.
And then, I think, maybe all this has a purpose. I work with unhoused people every week. Maybe it’s about time I understood how they feel. Like viscerally understood. Maybe it’s time I lived a fraction of their experience. I’ve certainly learned that when you’re looking from the outside, there’s a whole lot you miss. Information is one thing. Experience is another.
The way the cold seeps into your bones. The way it makes you ache.
The awfulness of washing your hands in bitingly cold water.
Not having a warm house to come home to.
The lack of light. How, as many candles or flashlights you have, everything is enshrouded in shadow.
Unlike a lot of people, though, I know this will pass. I don’t know if it will be tonight or days from now. Either way, we are changed. Our eyes are tiny bit more open.
I’m a firm believer in never wasting a good crisis. So, I’m hoping that, through the silence that brought all this about, we learn to not be quite so silent ourselves.
