It rained today not a storm, just that soft, steady kind of rain that hushes everything. I walked around the lake. No umbrella, no destination. Just me, the path, and the gentle rhythm of raindrops on leaves and water.
There’s something deeply comforting about walking in the rain, especially near the lake. The world goes still. Ducks huddle under shrubs. The surface of the water ripples, reflecting a sky blurred with grey. The usual voices, cars, chatter—they all fade. And for once, I can hear my own breath. My own thoughts.
Lately, life has been loud not with sound, but with strain. The kind that piles up in invisible layers. Managing medications. Watching for signs. Explaining again and again what day it is, where we are, why I can’t leave his side. The falls. The confusion. The weight of being everything for someone who is slowly disappearing.
I didn’t walk to escape. I walked to feel something else, something quiet and mine. The rain didn’t bother me. It settled on my coat and face like the gentlest of companions. It didn’t ask anything of me. It just fell.
As I rounded the far side of the lake, a bird startled from the reeds and took flight. I stood still. Watched it go. And something in me exhaled.
Sometimes people ask how I manage. The truth is, I don’t always know. But today, I walked around the lake in the rain. And that was enough.
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