I have spent the last 3 1/2 out of 5 years living away from NYC. And every single time it has snowed in the city during my time away, I’ve been heartbroken about missing it.

Growing up in New York, winters were filled with snowy days. I remember one year, when I was 5 or so, the snow was about six feet high (or at least, that’s how I recall it). My dad shoveled for hours to make a walkable path and it still towered above me. I was in awe.

It happened again when I was a senior in high school – it snowed so much that I was trapped inside with no car and eventually got so painfully bored that I walked almost 3 miles to my then-boyfriend Dan’s house. I had cabin fever. Not much has changed.

There was nothing quite like waking up to a flurry of flakes, and hearing the amazing news that there was a three-hour delay. Snow days? Forget it. I was in pure bliss. It meant a day outside with friends, sledding at Webb Field and a hot chocolate waiting when I got home.

Being a skier since I could walk, I also looked forward to powdery weekends on the slopes – of course, until I got old enough to want to spend weekends drinking in suburban parking lots with my friends instead…

When I got older and moved to Manhattan, the snow was just as exciting. No car meant no stress. Snow was inconvenient in some ways, but it was always someone else’s problems to clear it away and well, that’s what Hunter boots are for. And there is nothing – NOTHING – quite like walking down the middle of a deserted Houston Street with no cars or people around to ruin the moment.

But then I spent 3 years in South Florida which meant absolutely no hope of inclement weather, hurricanes excluded.

After three years away, I finally spent all of last year back in New York City. And winter came. And it got cold. But we never had a real storm. I longed for a storm, so I could stroll in Central Park or have a cozy brunch at The Standard. The guy I was dating and I would make plans for what we would do when the storm finally hit and we could spend a day cuddled in bed, watching movies and eating take-out from Sea.

It never happened.

Now I’m in Las Vegas and the outlook for flurries is just as unlikely. The difference is that, unlike South Florida, it gets COLD here. Like, really cold. And the wind is way worse than anything I’ve ever experienced in NYC. I can see the snow-capped peaks of Mount Charleston from the balcony of my apartment but I’m pretty certain it will never reach the Strip.

Now another winter is here – and once again, I’m gone. Last week was especially tough. There was one of those stay-at-home-for-days kind of storms and I watched as my Manhattan-based friends posted Instagram and Facebook photos of the enviable whiteout. The tree-lined streets of the West Village were picture perfect, with no one outside to disrupt the beauty of it. I wished I was sitting at the Spotted Pig or Bell, Book and Candle sipping too many glasses of red wine with my most adventurous friends. It made me miss home.