This past Saturday, some of the South got pummeled by snow, sleet, and ice by a massive winter storm.

As someone who deeply appreciates and loves a good snowfall, I was extremely (but somewhat cautiously) excited. It hadn’t snowed in our area for three years.

The sunrise that morning featured a vibrant array of reds, oranges, pinks, and pops of purple. It was absolutely stunning; I wondered if it was a harbinger of something grand.

Hours later, I left work. Sleet slowly fell as I drove home, and the steel-gray sky looked as though it was going to burst with snow at any moment. I was ready.

The sleet continued for an hour or two before it abruptly stopped. And then…the snow began to fall.

It was light at first, a little more than flurries, but it rapidly intensified. The ground was cold enough for the snow to begin sticking.

The snow did, in fact, stick but not for long. The sleet returned with a vengeance, ultimately spelling the end of the snowfall.

Three years of waiting for measurable snow, and we received a little less than a dusting.

I was sad and disappointed. But, in the end, I was very grateful to have witnessed the fluffy snowflakes that fell for no more than a half hour.

As someone who suffers with anxiety, I was reminded that day to live in the moment, even if it’s fleeting.