I’ve always loved living in Massachusetts because we get all four seasons at their best. 

The beautiful spring air, bright summer sun, crisp autumn with stunning leaves, and the chilly type of winter that makes hot chocolate hit the spot. 

And yes, I love snow. Sue me.

But I also sometimes hate living in Massachusetts because we get all four seasons.

Starting this off by contradicting myself probably isn’t the best look, but just give me a minute to explain.

I genuinely don’t think I could live somewhere where the weather stays relatively the same all year. As nice as 75 degrees and sunny sounds, I need the leaves to change. I need snow. I need that first random warm day in March when people start wearing shorts, even though it’s 52 degrees. 

I need seasons.

I just wish they knew when to get a move on.

Because without fail, every season eventually reaches a point where I have had enough. 

Take summer.

There is nothing better than the beginning of summer. The sun is out until 8 p.m., you can sit outside at night, everything is green, and suddenly there are a million activities to do. 

June and July feel like a fresh coat of paint for the human body.

Then August happens.

Suddenly, it’s 93 degrees with enough humidity to make stepping outside feel like your whole body was licked by a dog. 

Extremely unpleasant. 

My hair doubles in size, you can’t get into your car without flinching, and your ankles are a feast for more mosquitoes than you can count.

Time’s up. Bring me fall.

There is no place I’d rather be in October than New England. The trees are orange, red, and yellow. The air is cool enough for a sweatshirt but not cold enough for a puffy coat. Brooksby Farm is shelling out amazing apple cider donuts.

Once again, there is equilibrium. 

And then one by one, those leaves fall.

Suddenly, the backdrop of your yard at night is wiry, crooked shadows that look more like monsters than the luscious trees you once knew.

November comes, and the world turns brown. 

The grass isn’t so green; the sun takes a while to come and disappears a little faster every day. 

Those 60-degree evenings that were perfect for the long walks you stopped taking in late summer disappear, too, as a chill starts cracking through your sweatshirt. 

Fall isn’t the shortest season, but it sure feels like it. We spend weeks watching its beauty arrive only to watch it die just as quickly. 

So fall fatigue sets in, and winter tumbles through to save the day.

For many, winter probably isn’t much of a pick-me-up. But I love it. 

And the best part?

Snow. Glorious snow.

Another strange fact about me (or so I’ve been told): I love shoveling. It’s monotonous. Just me, my shovel, some music, and my dog running around the yard.

Last year’s storms really tested that love, but it’s still there.

Winter is my favorite season. I like the cold, the family visits that come with the holidays, and nothing feels better than stepping inside, peeling off your winter layers, and being met with warmth. 

It’s perfect. 

Until February. 

February, to me, is winter’s witching hour. The cold feels like chains, the darkness looms, and I walk into work saying, “Man, I can’t wait for spring,” more times than I can count.

And when snow is still lining the streets on the cusp of March, it just doesn’t feel right.

I spend about three weeks of winter wanting spring. 

Then flowers start popping up, grass suddenly appears, and bees are humming by my head.

Spring has come to save us. 

I’ll spend most drives with the windows down and my music up, loving every second of it.

The air smells like fresh flowers, the sun is shining without making my skin feel like it’s going to melt off, and spring showers are refreshing.

Until they aren’t. 

The showers keep coming. New England becomes cursed with rain every weekend like clockwork. 

Bright, sunny Mondays and rainy Saturdays. 

Pollen is smudged on everything. You’re sneezing, you’ve got an allergy headache, and your jeans are soaked at the cuff from a puddle you didn’t see.

Please, just give me summer.

And there it is.

The same summer I couldn’t wait to escape less than a year ago.

Seasonal fatigue has hit me again. 

And it’s happening right now as we wade through summer, and I patiently wait for the afternoons not to crank up to 80 degrees. 

Sometimes I wonder why I love this New England weather so much.

But then I realize I’d sit through an eight-month summer if it meant reaching a New England fall. I’d slip on countless wet leaves if it meant falling into a mound of snow. I’d shovel foot after foot of that snow to stand in the first shower of spring. And I’d sneeze at just the sight of flowers to make it back to summer again. 

Maybe I don’t love every season all the time, but in my mind, nothing beats the seasonal cycle of New England.