Dear Rain,
You were much more than mere droplets falling from the sky; instead, you were the silent witness to my unravelling, the rhythm to my silent breakdowns, and tears I couldn’t shed. You fell when I couldn’t; heavy and unforgiving raindrops that soaked through into the earth where my roots felt dry.
I remember the first time I mistook you for solace: it was Thursday afternoon, and the man I loved had just told me in his gentlest way that he no longer knew how to love me. His words didn’t sting immediately; instead, they floated like dust motes in the air before landing weightily upon my lungs. That evening, you came without warning, drumming against my windowpane like Morse code I wasn’t capable of deciphering; I sat on the floor, back against my bed, letting your sound fill all those empty spaces left by him.
“Love Was Like a Flood”
There’s something about love that feels like drowning, not the violent kind, where one suddenly gasps for air, but rather its slow submersion, wherein one may not realise until their fingertips touch silt at the bottom. I gave everything, not in grand gestures like cinematic movies depict, but through quiet sacrifices: career opportunities turned down to remain close to him, friendships I let fade and learning to fold myself into more peaceful and less demanding shapes.
On a particular evening, he informed her of his feelings: he felt they had grown apart over time.
“Grown apart?” I had fallen so far into his light that I forgot what it felt like to stand straight, yet all there was instead silence and then rain pouring like my grief was being washed away by nature.”
When Ambition Cracked Like Dry Earth
After his departure, I dove headfirst into work, not because I was passionate, but as a way of filling the emptiness inside of me with something productive. Unfortunately, my career had always been precarious–a sapling growing on rocky ground; dreams once bright and uncontainable had dimmed over time as I began believing they weren’t meant for me alone.
One afternoon after receiving my third rejection letter that month, I sat on my balcony and observed how dark clouds had begun gathering; there was no rain yet, just tension before its release. That moment made it apparent to me how long I had been living in this suspended state without ever entirely breaking free.
Whispering Trees: What the Wind Carried Away
There’s an old oak tree near my house that I have witnessed sway in storms, its branches trembling but never breaking. One evening after an unsuccessful job interview, after standing beneath its shade, I placed my palm against its rough bark, deeply rooted and sturdy.
How are you standing so tall when life keeps pushing against you? I asked silently.
Wind rippled through the leaves, and it seemed as if to convey an answer: I bend so as not to break.
I thought about all of the times I had refused to bend, clinging desperately to an ex-love, forcibly trying out a career I wasn’t interested in pursuing, pretending I wasn’t shaken when inside, I was burning brighter than ever.
“My Second Storm of Rain and Cleansing”
On this particular night, I finally broke down, not in an aesthetic or single tearful way, but with raw sobs. You, too, Rain, joined in my sobbing; your tears fell with mine hammering on the roof as though even heaven were being held back from crying with me.
Something shifted.
The next morning, the air had a fresh scent: Petrichor is what they call it–the scent of earth after rain. I went outside barefoot to let damp grass press against my skin for the first time in months. At last! A breath was taken for granted.
My Unseen Strength: Lessons Learned From Rain
You weren’t just weathered. You were the reminder that things must change to create space for what will follow.
As nature heals after fire, new green shoots push through the ash-covered forest floor.
Like rivers that cut canyons with patience rather than force, or women who finally understand that being broken does not equate to being destroyed.
I am not the same as before the storms; some parts are softer, while other areas are harder. What has made a difference for me, though, is learning that strength doesn’t consist of never falling but in how one bounces back after experiencing difficulties.
Thank you, Rain, for being the tears I couldn’t shed, the cleansing I didn’t realise I needed and proof that even the worst storms pass by.
With quiet gratitude,
A Woman Learning to Grow Through the Rain