The Storm You Don’t See Coming

The storm that moved through the North Country this week wasn’t a surprise. By the time the first flakes began to fall, I had already received a text 12 hours earlier from Spectrum warning me to expect outages, and that single message did what it always does — it prompted me to start preparing. It never ceases to amaze me how instinctual this kind of preparation is for those of us who live here. We are quick to adjust our plans, quick to button down the loose edges of our lives, quick to do the small things that help us ride out whatever weather is coming. No one has to convince us to pay attention. We simply do.

What I’ve been thinking about this week, though, is how differently we respond to storms that aren’t made of snow and wind — the ones that gather quietly in the background of our lives, the ones we don’t feel in our bones the way we feel a cold front coming over Mount Washington. Digital storms don’t rattle the windows or weigh down the power lines, but they can undo a business just as swiftly, and sometimes far more quietly. Most people don’t notice these storms until they’ve already done their damage, and by then, the sense of control that preparation might have offered is long gone.

I was reminded of that a week ago when I stopped by a local auto mechanic to pick up my car. They had squeezed me in on a busy day and treated me with such kindness and skill that I felt genuinely grateful. I said as much as I stood at the counter paying my bill, wanting them to know that I saw their effort and appreciated the way they took care of me. I had looked them up on Google that morning to check their hours, and in doing so, I noticed a scathing one-star review left by someone whose experience had been the exact opposite of mine. It sat right at the top — stark, harsh, and directed at the man now standing across from me.

When I mentioned the review gently, he stiffened. His entire posture changed, as though he needed to brace himself for a conversation he didn’t want to have.

“Oh, I don’t care about that,” he said, waving his hand like he was swatting away a fly. “We’ve been around for over 100 years. We don’t need more customers. What people say online doesn’t matter.”

His words were sharp, but there was something fragile underneath them — a defensiveness rooted not in confidence but in discomfort. It struck me instantly that he did care, probably more than he knew how to admit. And beneath that, I felt a quiet ache for the business he loved. I could almost see the writing on the wall: the way a belief like that, left unexamined, can slowly become the very thing that erodes what generations have built. As if longevity were the same thing as invincibility. As if a century of history could protect a business from a world that no longer behaves the way it did even ten years ago.

I slid my card across the counter before leaving and simply said, “If you ever feel like things online start to affect you, please reach out.”He nodded, but I could feel his resistance, that deep-rooted New England instinct that whispers We’ll be fine. We’ve always been fine.

But storms have a way of doing what they will, whether we’re ready or not.

A few days later, that same feeling — that quiet mixture of sadness and foresight — surfaced again in an unexpected place. I was in conversation with a friend. He had been trying to order lunch from a local restaurant whose food he loves and whose owners pour their whole hearts into what they do. He wasn’t doing anything extraordinary — just pulling out his phone, as most people do, to check the menu. But within seconds, he realized they had no website and found himself stuck behind Facebook login walls, unable to see the most basic information without signing into an account he hadn't used in years. Their hours were buried in a photo post from last summer. The menu was hidden somewhere in a gallery of images he couldn’t access. And after several minutes of trying to navigate what should have been simple, my friend gave up.

What struck me wasn’t the inconvenience — though it was inconvenient — but the fact that the restaurant owner would likely never know they lost a customer in that moment. There would be no angry review, no phone call expressing frustration, no obvious sign that something wasn’t working. Just a quiet, invisible erosion of opportunity. A drip of water wearing down stone.

Both moments stayed with me for the same reason: they revealed how much of our North Country economy is still relying on the hope that the world will continue to behave the way it used to. That customers will call instead of Google. That they will drive by instead of search online. That their loyalty will remain steady even as their expectations evolve.

But hope is not a strategy. And luck — even decades of it — is not a plan.

The world is shifting faster than we can see. In 2026, social media platforms are shifting as they continue to allow users to mute topical content entirely, meaning that the narrow window companies have to earn attention will become even tighter. AI is reshaping how people search, how they choose, and how they trust. It’s no longer enough to be #1 on Google. Now you need to show up in ChatGPT responses, in AI Overviews, in Reddit threads, in local conversations, and — most importantly — in reviews that reflect the reality of who you are.

This isn’t a passing trend or a marketing fad. It’s a transformation in how people decide where to spend their time and money.

Being online isn’t extra anymore.

It’s how your customers find you, trust you, and choose you.

The truth is, we’ve already lived through one preview of this shift. COVID forced every business in the North Country into an “online or invisible” reality overnight. Some adapted and survived because of it. Others did not. And when life returned to normal, many breathed a sigh of relief and stepped right back into old habits, believing the crisis had passed and would not return.

But crises don’t operate on our timelines.

And storms don’t wait for us to be ready.

As I’ve been sitting with these moments — the mechanic, the restaurant, the storm alert on my phone — what I keep coming back to is how deeply I love this place and the people who make it what it is. The businesses here aren’t faceless corporations. They are family histories, personal sacrifices, stories written over generations. They are the heartbeat of the North Country. And the last thing I want is to watch any of them fade simply because the world shifted and they didn’t shift with it.

Preparation doesn’t need to be complicated. It doesn’t require perfection. It just requires willingness — the same willingness we already practice every time a storm is forecasted and we stack the wood, test the generator, and assume responsibility for our own safety.

Digital readiness is no different. It’s an act of care. An act of stewardship.

An act of choosing to stay visible in a world that is changing whether we welcome it or not.

I think often about that mechanic and that restaurant, and the hundreds of businesses like them across New England — hardworking, rooted, proud, and increasingly vulnerable to a shift they can’t quite see but will inevitably feel. And I think about how easily the storm could be weathered if we prepared in calm weather instead of scrambling when the power has already gone out.

We can’t wait for another crisis to realize what should have been built in quieter times.

We can’t assume that yesterday’s success will protect us from tomorrow’s storms.

We can’t rely on history when the world now runs on visibility and trust.

What we can do — what we still have time to do — is look up, pay attention, and begin the small but essential work of preparing for the future that is already on its way.

-Amanda