I used to hate rainy days. Really hate them.

Every grey morning felt like the sky stealing something from me. Plans ruined. Mood dampened—literally. I’d check the forecast with dread and groan when I saw the little rain cloud icons stretching across the week.

Then something changed. I’m still not sure what exactly. But somewhere along the way, rainy days became my favorite.

The permission slip

I think it’s about permission.

On sunny days, there’s pressure. You should be outside. You should be doing something. The weather is too nice to waste. Even if you’re exhausted, even if you don’t feel like it, the sunshine creates an obligation.

Rain cancels all that.

When it’s pouring outside, nobody expects you to go jogging. Nobody side-eyes you for spending the afternoon on the couch. The world collectively agrees: today is for staying in.

There’s a freedom in that. Like a snow day for adults, except nobody has to shovel anything.

The textures of a rainy day

What I love now is everything I used to hate.

The sound. Not just rain on the roof (though that’s lovely), but rain on windows, rain on pavement, rain on leaves. Each surface makes a different noise. Together they create something I can only describe as companionable. Someone once called it “nature’s white noise,” and I think that’s exactly right.

The light. Grey isn’t blank; it’s soft. Everything looks gentler in overcast light. Colors are muted but richer somehow. My apartment, which can feel harsh in bright sunshine, becomes warm and cozy when filtered through clouds.

The smell. You know the one. That wet-earth scent after rain starts falling. There’s a word for it—petrichor—but the word is less important than the thing itself. It smells like something good happening.

The rituals

Rainy days have their own rhythm. Here’s what mine usually look like:

Morning. Wake up to the sound of rain. Lie there for a while listening. Eventually make coffee, but slower than usual. There’s no rush when you’re not going anywhere.

Mid-morning. Stand at the window for longer than normal. Watch the raindrops race down the glass. Wonder why some go fast and some go slow. Never look it up.

Afternoon. Read, or try to. Sometimes nap instead. The light is perfect for both. If I’m feeling active (rare on these days), maybe bake something. The oven heat feels right when it’s cold and wet outside.

Evening. Soup weather. Or pasta. Or anything warm. Eat it on the couch with something playing in the background. Fall asleep earlier than planned.

None of this is remarkable. That’s kind of the point.

What rain teaches

Here’s what I think happened to me: I stopped fighting the weather.

For years, I resisted anything that wasn’t convenient. Rain made my hair frizz. Rain meant carrying an umbrella. Rain meant wet socks if I guessed wrong about the forecast.

At some point I started accepting it instead. Okay, it’s raining. What does that make possible instead of impossible?

It’s a small shift but it changed everything.

The people who walk in rain

I developed a habit of watching people through windows on rainy days. Not in a creepy way—just noticing.

Most hurry past. Hoods up, umbrellas tilted, racing from shelter to shelter. Understandable.

But occasionally you see someone who isn’t rushing. Someone walking at normal speed, getting wet, seemingly unbothered. Kids especially do this. They splash in puddles on purpose. They turn their faces up toward the sky.

I admire those people. They haven’t learned yet that rain is supposed to be inconvenient.

A rainy day confession

I’ll be honest: I don’t want every day to be rainy.

If it rained every day for a month, I’d start feeling the old frustration again. The dreariness would accumulate. My mood would dip.

What I love is the punctuation of rainy days. A grey morning after several sunny ones. The surprise of waking to wet streets. The variability of weather mirroring the variability of life.

If I could order the weather (I can’t), I’d ask for maybe two rainy days a week. Just enough to appreciate them. Just enough to justify staying in.

Right now

It’s raining as I write this.

Not dramatically—no thunder, no wind—just a steady drizzle that’s been going since noon. The window next to my desk is streaked with water. The streetlight outside looks soft and diffused.

I made tea an hour ago. It’s cold now. I don’t care.

This is exactly where I want to be.

Next time it rains, try doing nothing about it. Don’t complain, don’t wish for sun. Just notice what the rain makes possible. You might be surprised.