Brigit Len Tabuena

It’s 27 degrees Fahrenheit, someone’s insisting it’s “not even that bad” and you’re debating if gloves are dramatic. In Maine, that’s not denial. That’s just winter. You put a coat on and keep it moving. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how some people assume Mainers “hibernate.” I’m not convinced that’s true. If anything, winter feels like when the real version of the state comes out. Mainers don’t fear the cold. We budget for it. We factor it in. Once the tourists leave and the air gets sharp, something shifts. The grocery store is somehow packed at 9 p.m. Line dancing at Bolos is all locals. The rink by the gazebo downtown turns into everyone’s favorite Saturday activity. I’m not saying everyone loves January through March. But there’s an understanding: This is where we live, and there’s not much of an alternative.

Every January, it feels like the locals reemerge. There’s something funny about how social Maine gets when everyone assumes we’re in hiding. Snowstorms don’t cancel plans; they just change the footwear. Sports seasons are in full swing, and snow days come up about once a week: This is when Mainers are most active.

The tourists see lobster rolls, oyster festivals, hikes in Acadia and schooner sunset sails. They don’t see the in between. The late-night hot chocolate runs, the bundled up walks after studying until midnight. Just last night, my friend and I wandered around campus in our puffers after being in Hawthorne-Longfellow Library for hours. We weren’t chasing a view; we just needed some air. The snow reflected the lamplight, everything was quiet and for a second, we forgot about the cold. It was the kind of quiet you only get in winter. Winter carries a stillness with it, a slowness you can’t get any other time of year. I wonder if that’s part of it—winter feels private. Stripped down. Less performative. There’s a sense of community. A collective warmth, a kind of unspoken agreement to look out for each other.

Even the style shifts. The puffer goes over the going-out top. Blundstones. Every. Single. Day. Someone’s always wearing a dramatic wool coat like they’re speedwalking through Manhattan instead of to a 9 a.m. class. On this campus, the coat is the outfit. There’s a kind of generational knowledge in how people dress—the hand-knit scarves, the grandmother sweaters, the Smartwools that mean business. It’s practical, sure. But it’s also unmistakably Maine. And then there’s the delusion that hits in March. I have distant memories of sledding in long sleeves because 35 degrees felt warm. We’d crack the windows at 35 degrees and call it spring. In Maine, we don’t wait for 70 degrees. We celebrate 28 degrees and sunny.

There’s also space in winter. No curated sunsets. No lobster roll lines. Just regular Maine—steady and a little unbothered. You recognize the same faces at the cafe, the same regulars at the pub, the same person who refuses to wear a hat. It’s less spectacle, more continuity. And somehow, that feels more intimate.

Winter might actually be the truest version of this place.

So, go to Simpson’s Point for sunset. Skate on the quad. Sled at the golf courses. Buy a drink for the random woman you met line dancing last week. Daylight savings is coming. Spring break is around the corner. The crocuses will bloom in no time. Embrace this Maine winter in all her glory.

But in the end, it’s not that deep. You can resent the cold all you want—it’s still going to be 19 degrees tomorrow. Mainers aren’t fearless. We’re just not rearranging our lives for the weather. Complaining doesn’t make it warmer. For now, it’s 27 degrees.

And you know where your coat is.