The Rain That Raised Me

I didn’t grow up with lullabies or warm embraces, but I did grow up with rain.

Some children had parents who held them close when the world turned gray. I had a tin roof and a broken window that whistled when the wind pushed through it. That sound—low, soft, then rising—was the only song that cradled me to sleep. The rain didn’t judge. It didn’t shout. It simply came and stayed, as if it knew I needed it.

In the small village where I was raised, storms arrived like relatives. Unexpected. Loud. And impossible to ignore. The first time I remember noticing the rain, I was five. My father had slammed the door on his way out, angry at something I didn’t understand. I curled up by the front step, trying not to cry, when the clouds opened above me.

It started slow—tiny drops kissing my knees, my hands, my cheeks. Then harder. Colder. The sky wept, and I didn’t feel so alone anymore. I imagined the sky was crying for me. That it knew the ache in my chest and wanted to help carry it.

That was the day I started listening to rain instead of people.

Every storm taught me something. The light showers were gentle reminders that even the sky can be soft. They fell quietly while I sat by the window, notebook in hand, sketching clouds or writing the names of things I loved but couldn’t say out loud.

The heavy rains were different. They shouted. They flooded our narrow streets and soaked our clothes. They reminded me that nature, like people, could be both beautiful and brutal. But no matter how hard the rain fell, it always left something behind—cleaner streets, greener trees, cooler air. It washed things away, but it also made things grow.

That gave me hope. That maybe my pain, too, could make something bloom.

There was a summer when my mother stopped speaking for weeks. Not to me, not to anyone. She sat in the same chair every day, staring at the floor like she was waiting for it to disappear. The silence wrapped around the house like a fog. And then one evening, it rained.

A monsoon—wild and wild-hearted. Thunder shook the floorboards. The wind pushed against the windows. I was terrified, but I wasn’t alone. I crept to the back porch and sat on the step. And then I saw her—my mother—standing just outside the doorway, her face turned to the sky.

She didn’t say a word, but I watched her breathe—really breathe—for the first time in weeks. She stood there, arms open, rain pouring down her dress and into her hair. And I realized, she too was raised by rain. Maybe we all are, in some way.

In my teenage years, when words felt too sharp and hearts felt too heavy, I’d run outside every time it rained. No umbrella. No shoes. Just me and the sky. The water washed away my shame. The cold numbed the regrets. I found freedom in the downpour. I could cry without being noticed. I could scream and let the thunder answer.

Even now, in this new city where the rain is softer, quieter, I still find myself pausing when it starts. I still lift my face to the sky. I still listen.

The rain reminds me who I am. A child who found comfort not in voices, but in rhythms. In the patter of water on rusted tin. In the scent of wet earth. In the soft roar that fills a silent night.

The rain raised me to be patient. It taught me that sometimes, healing comes slowly—drop by drop. That sometimes, you must sit through the storm to appreciate the calm. And that there is beauty even in broken things, like cracked clouds or bruised hearts.

So now, when someone asks what saved me, I don’t say therapy. I don’t say books. I don’t even say time.

I say rain.

Because the rain never asked me to explain myself. It never told me to “move on” or “stay strong.”

It let me feel. It let me fall apart.

And then it helped me stand again.