The rainy season and the tears allowed to fall

Rain knocks without asking

This morning I woke up to the sound of rain.

Not the loud, crashing kind that pours and stops. The drizzling kind — gentle, patient, as though it knew it had all day.

I lay still and listened. Water on the tin roof — tap, tap, tap. Wind threading through the window gap, carrying the smell of damp earth. A strange smell — not fragrant, but real. Real in the way that stirs something very old, very deep in the chest.

And I realized: the rainy season always makes me sad.

Not sad because of the rain. Sad because the rain gives me permission to be sad.

On sunny days, you're busy. You run. You work. You smile. The rhythm of life pulls you along and you don't have time to sit with yourself.

But the rainy season — grey skies, empty streets, the world slowing down — and that empty space appears. The empty space you've been filling with schedules, with work, with calls to other people.

Rain doesn't knock and ask permission. It just falls.

Maybe sadness is the same.

Who taught us we "have to be strong"?

I remember the last time I cried in front of someone.

Actually — I don't remember. And that "not remembering" says a lot.

When did we learn that crying is weakness? That tears are something to hide, to swallow, to wipe away quickly before anyone sees?

"Stop crying."

"There's nothing to cry about."

"Be strong!"

The people who said those things didn't mean harm. They cared about us. They wanted us to be okay. But what we learned from those words was: my emotions are a burden. My pain isn't "big" enough to be seen.

Then we grew up. We got good at it. Really good — good at hiding. Good at saying "I'm fine" when we weren't. Good at smiling when we wanted to cry. Good at bracing when we wanted to collapse.

Until one day — a rainy day, perhaps — that bracing becomes too much. And we can't hold it anymore.

I want to tell you: that isn't your weakest moment. That's your most honest moment.

Tears are not weakness

Something rarely mentioned: crying is a healing mechanism of the body.

Not a metaphor. Literally: when you cry from emotion, tears carry cortisol — the stress hormone — out of the body. It's the body's way of self-cleansing, self-lightening.

Meaning every time you hold tears back, you're keeping in what the body wants to release.

I'm not saying "cry every day." I'm just saying: next time tears well up — try not wiping them away so quickly.

Let them be there. One second. Two seconds.

Feel them run down your cheek — warm, then slowly cooling. Like rain on a window pane.

Honestly, there was a time I cried while doing the dishes. For no reason. Hands in warm water, music playing softly, and tears just flowing. I didn't understand why. But afterward — so much lighter. As if someone had just lifted a stone from my chest.

I couldn't find a reason. Maybe I didn't need one.

Three things you've never allowed yourself to be sad about

This is the practice section. Very small. But potentially very deep.

Get a piece of paper. Or open a note on your phone. And write down three things you've never allowed yourself to be sad about.

Not the big losses — everyone knows they're allowed to be sad when losing a loved one, after a breakup, when failing. I'm talking about the smaller things. The things you tell yourself "it's nothing," but they're still there, stinging faintly, every time it rains.

Maybe:

I'm sad because that time, nobody asked if I was okay.

I'm sad because I missed my childhood without knowing.

I'm sad because of an apology I never received.

Write them down. No explanation needed. No need to be "reasonable." Sadness doesn't need a valid reason to exist.

Then reread them. Slowly.

And if tears fall — let them fall. Like rain outside the window. They know the way.

...

Outside, the rain is still falling.

Not rushing. Not explaining. Not asking permission.

And the earth still welcomes it. The trees still drink. And after rain — there is always a morning when everything is cleaner, lighter, a little greener.

I hope you let yourself fall too — and then turn green again.

When to seek professional support

This piece is about letting yourself cry. It cannot replace treatment, and I do not promise the sky clears after the rain.

But here are a few signs you should bring to a professional, rather than carrying them alone:

• You cry nearly every day for weeks, and never feel lighter afterwards
• Or the opposite: you cannot cry at all, and feel yourself going numb
• You no longer feel joy or want anything, including things you used to love
• You think about hurting yourself, even if it is just a passing thought

The last point cannot wait. Speak with someone you trust, today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

Tears are not weakness, and neither is seeing a professional. Both are simply what a body and a person do when something is larger than their own strength.

This article was created with AI assistance.