a belated love letter to the rain

rainy days as an allegory for how you choose to live your life

I grew up in the desert, where we got less than 200 millimeters of rain a year. I know that sounds like a lot, but it’s one of the lowest rates in the world. So, when it did rain, it was a big deal. It always took us by surprise, and we sheltered ourselves from it—we weren’t used to getting wet. For eighteen years, that was my reality. And then I decided to move to California the year the drought ended.

The first time it rained, it poured, and I was soaked in all but five minutes. The only thing I had to protect me was my black cotton hoodie. Though it tried to put up a fight, what can cotton really do against the rain? I remember getting back to my dorm and feeling traumatized. How was I supposed to do that again? I didn’t even own an umbrella.

A hot shower later, the sense of defeat felt washed away. And, for a moment, it was as though nothing had happened. So, I waited for the rain to subside, put on the only other hoodie I had, and ran out to buy my first umbrella—the first of many, if the wind had anything to say about it. I haven’t left home without one since.

“What do you think about the rain?” I asked my best friend, a local, later that day.

“I love it.”

I’d never understand.

Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day (1968)

I remember telling my brother over the phone once that if it was going to rain it might as well be night already. I didn’t mind if it rained then because I wouldn’t have to interact with it.

Years later, I find myself living in London, known infamously, mostly by people that do not live here, for its rain. It’s been raining this last week and I often find myself peering out the window with awe, especially at night. I like watching cars drive in the rain, their headlights shining an almost pearly glow onto the road—and the road glistens. I like watching the double-decker buses go by, mostly vacant; its occupants appear cozy, but it’s easy to say that from the warmth of my living room. All this reminds me of that quote by Albert Huffstickler:

We forget we’re

mostly water

till the rain falls

and every atom

in our body

starts to go home.

But, the other day, when I was out, it started to rain. And, I know I said I never leave home without an umbrella, but I lied. I stepped out of the store, onto the high street, once again with only a black hoodie to protect me. A different one, albeit, but a black hoodie nonetheless. But, as I walked from one store to another, I realized that I didn’t feel the need to panic. Yes, the intensity with which the rain drops hit my face felt almost aggressive, but somehow also cool and refreshing—like I needed them.

It felt like they were trying to tell me something, or show me something, that is. And, as I passed droves of people huddling under overhangs waiting for the rain to pass, it dawned on me how much I had changed. I was finally embracing a rainy day for what it was—the cups of tea that feel so much warmer, the candles that glow brighter. That it was up to me to decide the reality I wanted to experience. And, isn’t that what growing up is?

It also felt like rebirth. Like I had died towards the end of a movie and had a funeral in the rain, my death symbolizing the birth of something new and vital to the sequel. But, mostly, it felt like hope. If you haven’t heard, I recently quit my corporate job because I couldn’t handle the toxicity anymore. Though I thought I might regret it, it has been incredibly freeing. I’m starting to feel like myself again, and I think that’s what the rain was trying to tell me: that I made the right decision.

I have had the chance to be reborn and can already feel the flowers of my life blooming in ways I never thought possible. And, just as I have consciously decided to embrace rainy days, I am choosing to embrace, and make the most of, this next chapter unfolding right before my eyes.

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And hope, if it had a scent, would smell like spring, like rain, like something new and alive.
– Jennifer Rush

Studio Ghibli