Life, Noticed: What a Rainstorm Taught Me About Rebuilding

The other day, the rain was coming down across the patio, and everything beyond the porch looked a little blurry. It's the kind of rain that makes you pause for a second, even if you have seventeen other things to do.

I remembered a line I'd seen somewhere:

“Storms are meant to expose what will wash away and what will remain.”

I don't know who first said it. And I don't think every storm arrives to teach us something. Sometimes a hard season is just hard. You get through it, clean up what you can, and hope for another try tomorrow.

But the line stayed with me because of what happens afterward.

My first instinct, when something in my life changes, is to put everything back where it was. Get the routine running again. Make the plans I had before. Pick up every piece, even the ones I was exhausted from carrying.

I've done that with commitments that no longer fit, with expectations I never agreed to, and with versions of myself I thought I was supposed to keep being. I can be very good at making things look normal again, even when normal wasn't working.

That line made me wonder how often I treat rebuilding as an obligation to restore every single thing. As if there’s an inspector coming by afterward to make sure I put my old life back correctly.

There are parts of life I want to fight for. The people I love. The practices that actually help me feel like myself. The little things that make an ordinary day feel like mine. A hard season can make those things clearer, even if I wish the clarity had come another way.

And then there are the things I only kept upright because I was the one holding them there.

That's the part I have trouble admitting. Letting something go can feel uncomfortably close to saying I failed at it. So I'll keep propping it up long after I know it isn't right for me, just to avoid having to explain why it fell.

But maybe I don't have to rebuild it simply because it used to be there.

I wouldn't say that to someone in the middle of losing something important. I wouldn't say it to myself in the middle of it, either. There are days when all you can do is get everyone fed and find a dry towel. That's enough for that day.

Later, when there's a little room to look around, I think it's fair to ask: What held? What needs attention? And what was I working so hard to keep in place that I might be relieved to leave behind?

I still don't love the part where you have to figure out what to do after a storm. I would happily skip that part, thanks.

But when I have enough room to look around, I want to pay attention to what actually needs rebuilding and what I'm only reaching for because it used to be there. Those are different jobs.

Life, Noticed is a series about the moments we almost miss, and what they’re trying to teach us.