There was a time in my life when a rainy day felt like a curse.

Now, I realize it was a gift.

The Boredom I Couldn’t Wait to Escape

When I was young—maybe twelve or thirteen—rainy days felt endless. I’d sit by the window, watching drops snake their way down the glass, wondering when the sky would clear and let me do something. Anything.

Stuck inside, hours felt like days. The TV offered nothing new. The same books sat on the shelf, already read, and the clock hands barely moved. I’d flop on the couch, pace the hall, open the fridge a dozen times hoping something interesting had appeared.

I didn’t know it then, but I was living through some of the richest moments of my life.

The Stillness I Now Crave

Today, I’d give anything to go back.

Not to change anything—just to be there again.

To hear the soft murmur of a television in the next room. To feel the warmth of dry socks and smell grilled cheese sizzling on a rainy afternoon. To lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, free of deadlines, free of expectations, free of the mental weight that adulthood brings.

What I once saw as boring, I now see as sacred.

Because those days were slow. Unhurried. Undemanding. There was no pressure to prove anything. No constant feed of information. No overwhelming noise of the world. Just a quiet kind of peace I didn’t appreciate when I had it.

The Gift of Remembering

Rainy days now mean traffic, delays, and soggy shoes. But every once in a while, when the world slows just enough, I’ll catch a glimpse of those long-ago afternoons.

And I’ll miss them.

Not out of sadness, but gratitude. Because they remind me that life’s richest moments are often the ones we don’t notice while they’re happening.

So the next time the rain comes and the world presses pause—maybe don’t rush to fill the space.

Maybe just listen.

There might be something sacred in the stillness.