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When the Rain Fell: Naming What Still Hurts

Attention: Reading this might feel like a therapy session. You may tear up or remember some past pain you buried long ago. That’s okay. The purpose of this reflection is not to make you relive it but to help you remember, name, and face the trauma you once could not handle—so that you can finally walk free.

When I was in grade four, one Thursday morning in the second term, the sky was bruised gray. The sun tried to peek through the clouds but was swallowed by darkness. Minutes before break time, the heavens opened and it rained cats, dogs—and maybe cows too.

Rain, for much of my childhood, was an enemy. I remember my mother’s prayer, whispered as she gazed at the clouds, “Lord, let the rain be just enough to grow the groundnuts.” But that day, the rain didn’t listen.

I remember sitting on the wooden desk, knees pressed together, begging the rain to stop. I needed to go for a short call but couldn’t cross the flooded schoolyard. The rain pounded the roof like angry drums, and I wriggled and danced on the seat, praying silently, “God, please make it stop.” He didn’t.

When the rain finally paused at lunch hour, I ran home—except home wasn’t safe. The small kitchen and the prayer room beside it had collapsed, crushed by the water-soaked walls. A girl from next door screamed as smoke rose from the scattered pots. That day, the smell of wet soil mixed with smoke branded itself into my memory. That day, rain became a trigger.

After that, every drop of rain carried terror. I would want to run away from home. I felt powerless—too young to build a new house, too small to change the village drainage, too weak to stop the storm. When it rained at night, I would stay awake, listening to the dripping sound, checking to make sure the mattress wasn’t drenched.

I envied people who said, “It’s so peaceful to sleep while it rains.” I wanted to believe them, but peace was something rain had stolen from me.

Years passed. I went through high school, learned to smile, laugh, pray, and even worship in church—but deep inside, my body still remembered the fear. The body keeps the score. I had learned to mask it well, but every storm—literal or emotional—awakened that frightened child in me who just wanted safety.

It was only later, when I began to understand myself, that I realized how trauma can hide under normal life. I started practicing self-awareness, sitting down and allow my mind to think deeply what happened in my past.

The first time I chose not to run when it rained, I stood by the window afraid but faced the rain. I gazed at the rain counted rain drops and I whispered, “Lord, I trust You more than I fear this water.”  That prayer became a turning point. The rain was no longer my enemy—it became a teacher of trust.

Healing didn’t come overnight. It came through acknowledging the child I once was—frightened, helpless, and doing the best he could to survive. And it came through meeting that child again, this time holding God’s hand beside him.

Many of us carry stories like this—unspoken, unnamed, unresolved. And when we refuse to face them, they quietly shape how we live, love, and believe.

Unhealed pain doesn’t stay buried—it leaks out in our tone, our choices, our silence, and our reactions. The rain might have stopped, but the storm continues inside until we decide to face it.

To face your past, there are a few sacred steps:

• Lay down your ego. Healing begins when we admit that strength isn’t pretending.
• Acknowledge your pain. There’s no honour in hiding it.
• Be willing to revisit your past. It will hurt, but pain faced with God becomes power transformed.
• Trust God’s love in the dark. He was there, even when you couldn’t see Him.
• Look again with new eyes. See the younger you with compassion, not shame.

There is a journey from trauma → memory → trigger → realization → healing.  Don’t be ashamed to call a friend, a counsellor , a pastor or a friend toward your healing journey.  

There is no joy in carrying unnecessary burdens. You can diffuse the power of your pain by naming it, acknowledging your helplessness back then, forgiving yourself for how you coped, and trusting God to write the next chapter with grace.

Maybe your fear of marriage comes from watching your parents’ love crumble.
Maybe you struggle to trust because a caregiver betrayed you.
Maybe you feel the need to control everything because chaos once ruled your world.

Those aren’t character flaws—they’re wounds waiting for light.

Look at your reactions, your triggers, your patterns. Ask yourself, “What is this protecting me from?” Then bring it before God, who heals the broken-hearted and binds up their wounds (Psalm 147:3).

You’ve carried it long enough.
You deserve freedom.
Let the rain fall again—but this time, let it wash you clean.