Every year in Western New York there comes a moment, usually sometime around late April, or in our case late May, when people begin emerging from their homes with the dazed expression of survivors stepping out of underground bunkers. Somebody hears birds chirping again. Somebody else catches the smell of damp earth instead of snowblower exhaust. And all across the region, people begin saying the same thing: “We made it.”

Winter in Western New York is not simply a season. It is a test of endurance. It settles in sometime around November and stays so long you begin to forget who you were before it arrived. By February, nobody is thriving anymore. We are simply reacting to conditions. We shovel. We scrape windshields. We search for gloves we just had on five minutes ago. We check weather radar with the intensity of air traffic controllers.

This winter felt especially long. Perhaps all winters eventually do. But there comes a point every year when even the hardiest Western New Yorker begins looking at Zillow listings in South Carolina while standing ankle-deep in slush outside a 7-11.

Buffalo averages close to 95 inches of snow annually depending on the season, though anyone living in the Southtowns knows official snowfall totals can feel wildly optimistic.

Outsiders don’t misunderstand Western New York winters. They know it’s not charming snowfalls and Hallmark movie scenery. What they may fail to picture are gray afternoons in March when the snowbanks resemble old concrete and everyone has forgotten what grass looks like. They do not picture potholes large enough to qualify for federal aid. And then suddenly, almost overnight, spring arrives.

Not real spring at first, of course. Western New Yorkers know better than to trust early April. We have all experienced the cruel emotional manipulation of a seventy-degree day followed immediately by freezing rain and sideways sleet. No. Real spring begins with something smaller: Fifty-eight degrees. Sunshine.Windows cracked open. That is all it takes.

Suddenly the entire region behaves as though it has been released from captivity. Men appear outdoors in shorts despite temperatures that would still require parkas elsewhere in the country. Lawn crews roar back to life. Porch furniture emerges from garages.

There is probably no happier human being on earth than a Western New Yorker eating lunch outdoors for the first time after winter. It may only be fifty-four degrees and everyone at the table may secretly be shivering, but nobody cares. You did not survive February to sit inside a restaurant another day.

The crabapple and lilac trees suddenly explode into bloom almost overnight. Kids ride bicycles after dinner again. The lake changes color from cold steel gray back to less gray. People begin lingering outside talking to neighbors instead of sprinting from house to car with their heads down.

The emotional shift is remarkable. After months of darkness arriving before dinner, the longer evening light alone feels therapeutic.

Perhaps that is why people who grew up here often feel strangely emotional about spring. In warmer climates, pleasant weather becomes background noise. But in Western New York, beautiful days still feel earned.

We know what bitter cold feels like. We know the exhaustion of scraping ice off windshields before sunrise. We know endless gray skies, frozen wiper blades and roads coated in salt for months at a time. So when warmth finally returns, we notice every detail of it. We notice crocuses forcing themselves through frozen soil. We notice robins hopping through wet grass. We notice the smell of rain instead of snow. We notice that for the first time in months, the air no longer hurts our faces.

Western New York has always possessed a certain resilience. People stay here despite the winters because there are things this region offers that cannot easily be replicated elsewhere. There is beauty in the changing seasons. There is character in old neighborhoods and lakeside towns. There is loyalty among people who have endured the same storms together for generations.

Spring simply reminds us why we stay.

By May, everyone begins speaking optimistically again. Gardens are planted. Boats are uncovered. Somebody always insists this will finally be the summer they spend every weekend at the lake. Western New Yorkers approach summer with the urgency of people aware that paradise has a strict expiration date. And perhaps that is the true gift of living here. Winter teaches you not to take warmth for granted.

Every year Western New York undergoes a kind of resurrection. And in many ways, so do we.