Where the Thunder Speaks

Thriving in the Storm: Why Rain Feeds My Soul

There’s a certain kind of magic in a thunderstorm. Not the soft, romantic kind that tiptoes in on warm breezes or golden sunsets, but something raw, untamed and electric. The kind of magic that doesn’t ask for permission. That doesn’t apologize for being loud, dark or messy.

That’s the kind of magic I understand. That’s the kind I belong to.

When the skies darken and the first rumble cracks the silence, something ancient stirs in me. It’s like the storm speaks a language my bones remember - a primal dialect of thunder and wind that says:
“You’re not too much. You were made for this.”

While others run for cover, I come alive.
There’s something sacred about the storm - the way the sky splits open and roars. It doesn’t whisper. It doesn’t wait. It demands to be heard. Just like I do.

Rain isn’t just weather to me. It’s a promise of God’s blessings, a cleansing, a chance to begin again. Everything feels more honest when it’s soaked - raw and real, stripped of its masks.

The storm doesn’t scare me. It mirrors me.
It reminds me that I don’t have to stay small or quiet or hidden.

I don’t just survive the storm. I thrive in it.

Because I know what it means to grow under dark skies.
To bloom with the flood.
To find beauty not despite the chaos, but because of it.

So, if the clouds gather and the lightning cracks, don’t look for me in shelter.
Look for me dancing in it - hair drenched, skin tingling and heart awake.
I let the rain baptize what’s no longer mine.
I let the thunder say my name in a voice the sun will never understand.

I remember who I am.
Not the version that fits neatly into blue skies and sunny days, but the one who blooms wild and unruly in the wake of the storm.

I’ve learned to stop fearing the flood.
In fact, I welcome it, because every time the downpour comes and washes everything away, what’s meant for me remains.

What’s true always survives!

Thunder doesn’t just crash - it announces.

And with every roar across the sky, I hear a truth I needed to remember:
You are powerful. You are allowed to be loud. You are allowed to take up space.

Growing up, I was told to stay calm, stay quiet and stay inside, but the storm taught me something else:
That strength doesn’t have to be silent, that peace isn’t always still and that the most beautiful beginnings often arrive wrapped in chaos.

So let it rain.
Let it thunder.
Let it roar.

I was made for this!