Soaked and Smirking
Why I Stopped Dodging the Rain—and Started Loving the Drip
“To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.”
—Friedrich Nietzsche
Recently, I stood outside my twins' school, waiting to pick them up—two little tornadoes of energy. Suddenly, the sky opened up. Instead of a drizzle, it was a full-on deluge. Rain slammed against the pavement, my jacket soaked through, and water trickled down my neck.
Usually, I'd grit my teeth and mutter about my timing, but this time—I laughed—a big, dumb, standing-in-a-puddle laugh. And you know what? It felt... great.
We're constantly dodging the messy stuff, aren't we? The humidity frizzes your hair into a lion's mane, the exhaustion after chasing kids or deadlines, the rain that soaks your "nice" shoes—we spend half our lives wishing it'd just stop. But there, outside the school—twins still dawdling inside, me dripping like a forgotten houseplant—I started wondering: What if this is the good stuff, too? Not just the sunny park days or the quiet coffee moments but the soggy, chaotic, real ones.
You've been there. Caught in some moment, you'd usually fight—rain ruining your plans, kids testing your last nerve—thinking, "Can this just be different already?" But lately, I'm curious (maybe a little hopeful)—is life showing up loud, wet, and unapologetic?
Last summer at Disney, the twins dragged me toward Pirates of the Caribbean under the blazing sun. The air was thick and muggy, making my shirt cling to me as we stood in a 45-minute line. The twins bickered over who would be first. Usually, I'd grumble and dream about escaping to an air-conditioned store. Still, I decided to pause and take in my surroundings. I felt the heat, heard the crowd buzz, and realized the warm, heavy air was almost... refreshing.
We're built to resist the "not ideal." Heat like that? Pass—give me a breeze. Long lines? Torture—beam me out. Sticky skin? Gross—where's the dry towel? We've got this unspoken rulebook: Life should be comfy. But standing there, I thought: What if this isn't the enemy? What if it's just... life, showing up in full Technicolor, complete with the sweaty extras?
Life's a TikTok reel. We're obsessed with the polished 15-second highlight—perfect lighting and a snappy edit. But the heat, the wait, the stickiness—the raw footage, the outtakes that don't make the cut but still tell the story. I'm not saying I'd choose a humid Disney line over a pool day (I'm human, not a saint), but maybe there's something in letting the heat have its moment instead of wishing it away.
Let's rewind to that day outside my twins' school—where I was drenched, waiting for them to burst out the doors. Rain was pounding down, turning my jacket into a soggy rag, water sneaking into my shoes like it had a personal vendetta.
I could've been mad—trust me, I've got a trophy case of petty complaints. The old me would've stood there, arms crossed, silently raging at the clouds, the school bell, the universe. But this time, I didn't. I let it hit me—rain streaking my face, cold seeping in—and I cracked a grin. I felt like I was six again, splashing in puddles without a care. And yeah, I probably looked ridiculous, but it felt like stealing a little freedom back.
I'm not great at this, I'll admit. I'm the type who likes life neat—dry hair, dry shoes, plans that stick. Rain doesn't care about that. It barges in, messes up the script, and usually, I'd fight it tooth and nail. But standing there, socks squishing, I thought: What am I even fighting for? To stay dry? To prove I've got it all together?
Letting that downpour do its thing—without my usual grumbling—felt like dropping a weight I didn't know I was carrying. It wasn't about loving the rain; it was about not needing to hate it.
Scroll Instagram any day of the week—everyone posts their golden-hour selfies and curated coffee runs. Where's the soggy dad in the pickup line? The blurry shot of wet sneakers? The unfiltered, unposed bits we gloss over.
I'm not saying I've mastered this (yesterday, I cursed a spilled coffee for five minutes), but that rainy afternoon? It whispered something: The mess isn't here to ruin us. It's here to remind us we're still in it—alive, soaked, and all. When was the last time you got caught in a downpour—did it wreck you or wake you up?
Yesterday, I hauled myself out for a run—nothing fancy, just a loop around the neighborhood. By the end, my legs were screaming—thighs tight, calves throbbing, lungs clawing for air like I'd just sprinted from a bear.
Old me would've grumbled home: "Why didn't I take the short route? Why do I do this to myself?" But this time, I collapsed onto the curb—panting, sweaty, a total mess—and thought, "Huh. This is what it feels like to be alive." Not the cute "I'm thriving" alive from an Instagram caption, but the gritty, aching, here kind. And it hit me: I didn't hate it.
We treat discomfort like a detour, don't we? Something to fix or skip—pop an Advil, chug a protein shake, and get back to "normal." But sitting there, asphalt digging into my shorts, I started wondering: What if this is the main road?
The sting of cold water when you jump in a pool, the burn in your chest after a good cry, the bone-deep tiredness after chasing kids or crushing a workout—it's not a glitch. It's the ticket stub, proof you showed up. Sure, I could've stayed on the couch (tempting, always), but then I'd miss this raw, loud reminder that I've got a body, a pulse, a shot at today.
So, here's the question—and yeah, I'm asking myself too: What if we stopped seeing "hard" as a flaw to iron out? What if it's just the texture of being human—proof we're playing the game, not watching from the sidelines?
I'm not saying I'll sign up for an IronMan tomorrow, but that curb moment stuck with me. Tired legs, whole heart—maybe that's the deal we didn't know we signed up for. When's the last time you felt that ache—what'd it tell you?
The other day, I had coffee with my friend Esteban and was still buzzing about that rainy school pickup. "Why do I always want the rain to stop?" I asked, stirring my latte like it was a therapy session.
Esteban shrugs, mid-sip: "Because you think it's screwing up your day."
I nod, but in my head, it's louder: Or maybe I'm screwing it up by not letting the rain just... rain. He's right—I've spent years acting like wet shoes, or a humid Disney line is personal attacks. If I squint hard enough, I can turn the world into something tidier. It doesn't work like that.
We're champs at this, aren't we? Fighting what's already here—rain, heat, a kid's meltdown—like we're in some cosmic tug-of-war we can win. I do it daily: Griping at traffic, refreshing the weather app like it'll apologize, snapping at the twins when they're... twins.
It's exhausting—like arguing with gravity or convincing a toddler broccoli is candy. And for what? To stay dry? To keep the script on track? (There is no script!) I felt lighter that day in the rain, though—letting it soak me instead of cursing it. Not because it was fun but because I stopped wrestling.
I'm not saying you should embrace every storm or celebrate humidity like some enlightened fairy. Sometimes, you're late and soaked, and the twins complain about soggy backpacks while all you want is a hot shower and a drink.
I understand—I'm not Zen enough to smile through every inconvenience, either. I'm not selling you the idea of becoming a saint who loves chaos; it's about learning and not always resenting it.
There's power in that—letting the rainfall, the heat stick, the tiredness settle—without throwing a tantrum at the universe. I've been chewing on this since that school pickup, Disney sweat-fest, and that curb collapse after my run. It's surrendering to reality; it's picking your battles.
Way back, I read some Sartre—yeah, I'm that person—and he talked about embracing the absurd, the stuff we can't control. It stuck with me because it's practical. Fighting the rain doesn't dry me off; it just sours the day. That's where the shift hides—not in loving the damp, but in letting it be there without ruining me.
I'm a work in progress. I'll probably curse the next heatwave or stubbed toe. But those moments when I don't? When I let the humidity hug me, the ache sing, the rain soak? They're small wins—proof I'm not just surviving life's chaos but tasting it.
Maybe the trick isn't to adore the sticky stuff—it's to stop battling it long enough to feel something else. Something like peace. Or at least a good laugh.
Back to that porch outside the twins' school—rain still pouring, me dripping like a forgotten mop, the kids finally tumbling out with their backpacks and a million stories. I'm soaked, shoes squelching, but I'm grinning—big, goofy, victorious.
Not because I outsmarted the weather (ha, no chance), but because I didn't need to. I stood there, let it happen, and found something in the mess—a little spark of "this is it," wet hair and all. It wasn't about winning; it was about not losing myself to the fight.
So, here's my pitch—not a rule, just a thought: Next time you're sticky from a Disney day, sore from a run, or drenched in a downpour, try this. Pause. Breathe it in—breathe it. Ask yourself, "What does this feel like right now?"
You might not love it—I'm not handing out medals for adoring humidity—but you might not mind it either. Life is not waiting for our permission slip to get messy, tiring, or wild. It's already here, showing up in puddles, sweat, and quiet, achy moments—dare I say, beautiful if you squint.
Your rain's coming—maybe it's today or tomorrow. Are you ready to get wet? I'm still figuring it out myself, but I've got a hunch—it's worth a shot.
Book Recommendation: The Obstacle Is the Way by Ryan Holiday
If this whole “stop fighting the rain and start feeling it” idea has you curious, grab The Obstacle Is the Way by Ryan Holiday. It’s not some stuffy philosophy (I’d never do that to you)—it feels more like a conversation with a friend who's obsessed with old Stoic wisdom and keeps it real. He takes figures like Marcus Aurelius and spins their ideas into something practical—like how the things that trip you up (humid Disney lines, anyone?) aren’t just obstacles; they are the path. I read it last year, half-expecting a lecture, and jotted down notes in the margins because it resonated with me. It’s short, punchy, and may even make you smile the next time you’re soaked or sore—perfect for exploring this messy, beautiful journey we’re on.