To You, Beneath the Clouds,
There are days when your mind is the weather. And some seasons, it rains for weeks.
No warning. Just a sky that won’t stop weeping. Old fears swell like floodwaters, and the streets of thought become hard to cross.
In Thailand, the monsoon doesn’t ask permission to arrive. It just comes. And then—it goes.
Locals don’t curse the rain. They cook slow meals. Nap to thunder. Listen to the world soften.
What if you treated your storms the same way? What if you stopped trying to fix the rain and just got still enough to hear it?
There’s wisdom in every downpour. Not the kind you control. The kind that washes something clean.
So when the clouds gather in your chest, try this: Don’t run. Don’t solve. Just sit with it. And wait for the green that follows.
With quiet solidarity,