The Rain

It started, as it often does, with a cloud.

A quiet, gray smudge across the sky that most people didn’t notice—or didn’t want to. But I did.

I was sitting on the porch of my grandmother’s old house, watching the wind tease the edges of the trees. The wooden swing creaked beneath me, rhythmic and slow, like a heartbeat I hadn’t felt in weeks. The scent of wet earth lingered even though the rain hadn’t started yet. It was the kind of day where everything felt like it was holding its breath.

I was doing the same.

It had been three months since my life changed. Since the text came. A single sentence from someone I thought would never leave: “I can’t do this anymore.”

No warning, no explanation. Just gone.

Since then, the world had felt dry and empty. Even sunny days annoyed me. They mocked me with their brightness. I craved rain. Not the drizzle that comes and goes, but the kind that stays a while. The kind that soaks you all the way to the bone and washes something off you—something you didn’t even know you were carrying.

That day, I got what I wished for.

It began as a whisper. A soft tapping on the leaves, like a secret being told just above a whisper. I stayed on the swing, too tired to care if I got wet. In some way, I wanted to. I wanted to feel something—anything.

Then it came harder. The sky opened. The kind of rain that made puddles dance and trees sway. I stayed put.

And slowly, something strange began to happen.

With each drop that hit my skin, I felt lighter.

I remembered being ten, running through this same yard in the rain with my brother, arms outstretched, pretending we could fly. I remembered the way my mom used to say, “Some things only grow in the rain.” I remembered my grandmother, who always said the rain was God’s way of hugging the earth.

And suddenly, I wasn’t alone anymore.

The rain blurred everything—my view, my thoughts, my sorrow. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, letting the cold drops trail down my cheeks like tears I hadn’t cried yet. It was funny how I could hold everything in for so long, and then the sky wept for me.

Grief is quiet like that.

It waits. It builds. Then one small thing—a smell, a sound, a song—can unleash it all.

In the rain, I finally broke.

Not in a loud, dramatic way. But gently. Like something fragile falling apart in slow motion. I cried until I couldn’t tell the difference between my tears and the rain. I cried for lost love, for unanswered questions, for the person I used to be before the hurt.

And when I had nothing left, I just breathed.

For the first time in weeks, I really breathed.

Later that day, the rain slowed.

The storm passed the way all storms eventually do. The sun peeked through, casting gold across the wet grass. And with it came a kind of peace I didn’t expect.

I walked barefoot through the yard, the mud squishing between my toes. It didn’t feel dirty—it felt grounding. Like I was finally part of something again. Nature, life, myself.

I picked a fallen magnolia bloom from the ground. Its white petals were damp but whole. It reminded me that even in the storm, beauty survives.

I sat back on the swing and watched the droplets fall from the leaves. Everything was quieter now, softer. The earth had been rinsed clean. And maybe, just maybe, so had I.

The Lesson in the Rain

That day taught me something I’ll never forget:

Pain doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you're alive.

And healing doesn’t always come with clarity or answers. Sometimes, it comes with rain.

The storms we fear often carry the release we need. The rain doesn’t erase the loss, but it softens its edges. It reminds us we’re still here, still growing, still capable of feeling deeply.

So if you ever find yourself in the middle of a storm—real or emotional—don’t run from it. Let it fall. Let it teach you. Let it cleanse.

Because some things, as my mom once said, only grow in the rain.

Moral of the Story:

Life is full of seasons, and storms are part of the journey. Instead of resisting the rain, embrace it. Within the downpour lies the chance to begin again—to feel, to release, to heal. The rain is not the end; it’s the beginning of something new.