The rain started before I could say goodbye…
I could still see the look on my parents' faces—a mixture of worry and pride. Their little girl had grown up too fast, and now she was leaving to settle abroad all by herself.
They were worried. I knew they were.
About how I would survive in a country with a completely different culture and language.
About whether I would be able to adjust… to belong.
And yet, somewhere deep down, there was relief too—that my biggest insecurity might finally feel… normal there.
Or maybe not.
I've always known how to face the storms in my life. After all, I've been the wind long before any storm began. But I hate the cruelty of lightning.
I long for rain—the kind that calms the wind, the kind that brings peace.
When will this storm end?
Will peace ever pour into my life like soft, rhythmic rain?
I don't have the answers yet. But I'm still searching.
And now, as I step into what feels like the most unfamiliar and unwanted chapter of my life, it seems the thunder has already begun.
Will I ever find my rain?
I hate thunder—because it reminds me of myself.
Of the way I look.
Of all the judgments, the whispers, the so-called "harmless" jokes I've endured throughout school and college.
That… is my weakness.
Pushing all those thoughts aside, I took a deep breath and said,
"Baba, don't worry. I'll be okay. I'm strong enough to handle everything on my own…"
He looked at me with a faint, fragile smile. Then he placed his big, warm hand on my head—the same hand that had always felt like home—and gently caressed it.
No one said anything after that.
Maybe because, to them, I was still that immature little girl who couldn't tell right from wrong. The one they had always protected. The one they didn't think was ready for the world.
They hadn't even agreed at first.
I had to convince them—again and again—holding onto my stubborn dream of being independent. I wanted a life where I could breathe freely, make my own choices, and finally understand myself without being constantly sheltered.
It wasn't that they didn't love me. They did—more than anything.
But they never really understood me.
The things I went through every day… the quiet struggles, the judgments, the way I felt trapped in my own skin—those things were never spoken about. And maybe that's why they were never understood.
In the end, it was silence that stayed with me.
Silence… and loneliness.
With my headphones on, and the sound of rain and thunderstorms echoing in my ears, I found a strange kind of comfort. Like the storm outside understood the one within me.
I smiled.
Just a smile.
Because that's all it was—a mask.
I wanted to cry. I really did.
But this… this was what I had chosen.
Independence.
At the airport, I said my final goodbyes, silently praying for my parents' well-being. And without looking back again, I walked forward—towards a new life in China.
As I settled into my seat, I leaned my head against the cold window.
Outside, the rain hadn't stopped. Droplets slid down the glass, one after another—like they were racing to disappear.
I watched them silently, my reflection faintly staring back at me.
For a moment, everything felt still.
No voices. No expectations. No judgments.
Just me… and the quiet sound of rain.
Maybe this was what freedom felt like.
Or maybe… just another kind of loneliness.
I closed my eyes, letting the soft hum of the plane surround me.
And somewhere between the echoes of thunder and the rhythm of rain, I made a silent promise to myself—
No matter how fierce the storm gets…
I will find my rain.
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