I’ve been weathered long before the rain came.

By a goodbye that came too soon.

By learning how to self-contain when comfort wasn’t consistent.

By anger that filled rooms where safety should have lived.

By carrying blame that never belonged to me and calling it maturity.

I’ve made promises that weren’t mine to keep—said yes when my mind and body hesitated, stayed loyal to systems that confused endurance with love. I learned to function while drenched and to keep moving even when the weight of it all clung to me…heavy, saturating, slow to dry.

When the rain came, I didn’t rush for cover. I stood still.

My clothes grew heavy, as they always had, soaked with expectation and emotional labor. But this time, something else happened. The drops on my face were unmistakable; some fell sharply, others lingered lightly but asked for nothing. I tilted my head slightly upward. Closed my eyes. And for the first time, I trusted not only myself but also what was coming from the sky.

Walking through inclement weather with my eyes closed, my senses awake, was something entirely different. Not resignation… not resistance, but a kind of meeting with myself.

I wasn’t managing anyone else’s comfort.

I wasn’t bracing for impact.

I wasn’t trying to prove my resilience by pretending I was dry.

I let the rain touch me without asking for anything in return. And in my body, I understood what my mind had taken years to learn: I am no longer responsible for carrying what was never mine.

The rain can have the rest. I know now what I get to keep.

Image Courtesy of Digital Designer & Shutterbug (@aaftab)