You Don't Get the Rainbow Without the Rain

Every year at Passover, my mom writes out a set of questions for us to answer after dinner. They’re always personal—meant to get us thinking about the themes of the holiday and how they show up in our own lives.

This year, one question in particular stopped me in my tracks:

“Are there any current-day plagues in your life—signs that we need to change, but we just aren’t listening to them?”

That question hit me hard. Because I’ve been carrying something for a long time now.

A natural pull to create. To write. To connect. To explore the human psyche.

And for most of my life, I’ve run from it. Because I was afraid.

Afraid of not being good enough. Afraid of the chaos. Afraid of what others would think of me.

Sometimes, that calling started to feel more like a curse— like who I was, and my natural gifts, were the plague itself.

But the gift wasn’t the plague. The plague was everything getting in the way of the gift: The fear. The avoidance. The distractions. The self-doubt. The ache that says you’re not where you’re meant to be—but that I kept ignoring.

And when you don’t listen, the plagues don’t go away… They just get louder.

This piece I wrote is about the process of finally listening. About the chaos of having something to say, but not knowing how to say it. About executive dysfunction, emotional overwhelm, and that ache in your chest that comes from not doing the thing you were meant to do.

It’s about what happens when your soul is screaming for something your body is afraid to reach for. And how the rain we run from might actually be the very thing we need— because it’s not until we let the storm come that we start to see the rainbow.

I can’t escape this feeling. It lives in my throat— makes me want to choke. Like my body, my words, my actions can’t keep up with the thoughts. The wisdom. The knowing in my head.

My soul craves something my body fears it can’t reach. And that disconnect— that disconnect is what terrifies me.

How can I hold so much knowledge and still lack the means to set it free?

It’s not about gaining more— it’s about channeling what’s already there. That’s the real challenge.

It feels like something is eating me. And there’s no release until I figure out how to structure my thoughts.

Until then, it’s just frustration. Broken trains of thought that make perfect sense in my head— but only in my head. And that makes my head want to explode.

I can’t carry these things alone. It’s enough to make you go crazy.

If I can’t shape them into something others understand, I’ll be stuck alone with them forever. So I feel paralyzed. Until I learn to be okay putting out one thing at a time— and slowly building.

It’s about trusting the unknown. Being okay with being misunderstood. Being okay with that until it all comes together. And even then— it might not be fully understood.

It’s about finding peace despite the misunderstanding. Despite the not-knowing. Despite the chaos.

Just trying. Learning. Growing. Trusting. Showing up. Having faith that people will come around.

With running, with school, with learning a language, with cleaning a house, with reading a book— there’s a clear goal. A finish line. A structure. The harder you work, the faster you get there.

But with writing— with storytelling, with healing, with philosophy— there is no finish line.

It’s nonlinear. It’s up and down and all around. It’s one idea changing into another mid-sentence. It’s progression, regression, obsession. It’s chaos.

And yet— it’s all I want in life. The thing I care about the most.

Still, I’ve spent—and will probably keep spending— so much time doing the things with clean edges, with measurable progress, because they keep me sane.

But sometimes, sanity comes at the cost of what you really want.

And the thing I want most? It makes me feel insane. But nothing makes me more insane than running from it.

Running from the rain. Because the more I run, the wetter I get. But I’m soaked without even seeing the beauty.

If I just sit in the discomfort, in the wetness, and let it pour— I might finally look around and see the rainbow.

When I’m doing those other things— I feel content. But I’m not fulfilled.

I can absorb all the information in the world. Chase all the goals I can name. But until I create something meaningful, until I make sense of what I carry— I’m not happy.

To feel fulfilled, I need something that challenges me. That asks me to think, to create, to live and breathe the things I’ve learned.

Always sprinting to the point of death at the gym. People ask if I caught what I’m chasing. It’s funny— because it’s not what I’m chasing. It’s what I’m running from.

Running from uncertainty toward a certainty I know how to reach. Running from my own fears. Running from the rain.

Those other things bring contentment in the moment. But contentment in the moment leads to short-term happiness and long-term longing.

Unhappiness in the moment leads to short-term frustration and long-term fulfillment.

Distractions are tempting. Black-and-white tasks are tempting. And we need them— to stay sane, to keep moving, to feel okay.

But if we fill our whole lives with them, we trade lifelong meaning for momentary peace.

And when we keep running with the rain, we just end up wetter. But when we sit in the storm— we realize the storm passes. And there’s a rainbow to follow.

I can’t let go of this dream— this need to write, to express, to give shape to the chaos— because it’s not just a dream.

It’s a calling. Something my soul always knew it needed to do. A contract I never signed but always felt.

It’s not just about being seen— it’s about seeing others. It’s about connecting. It’s about sharing stories so no one has to feel alone.

From as far back as I can remember, memoirs touched me in a way nothing else could.

I would sit with someone else’s pain, their struggle, their voice on the page— and I would feel this flood of pride for them.

And not only that— I felt understood. Like someone had finally said the things everyone else was too afraid to say out loud.

Their words reached me in the places no one else could see. And it was the first time I didn’t feel alone in this world.

That was the moment I knew: This is what I’m meant to do.

To write. To reflect. To connect. To put words to the ache so someone else can read them and whisper, “Me too.”

So no— I can’t make peace with the idea of not doing this. Because not trying would be the real heartbreak.

This calling is tied to who I am. It’s not external—like some career path I can walk away from. It’s part of my identity.

And it’s okay that I can’t make peace with not succeeding. Some things are too sacred to be compromised. Not everything is meant to be accepted or released. Some things are meant to be fought for.

Even if the path is nonlinear. Even if the words come out jagged. Even if it takes years. Even if it’s never fully understood.

Because real fulfillment isn’t made of contentment. It isn’t just joy or ease or happiness. Real fulfillment comes from the full range:

From the doubt. From the longing. From the ache of loneliness. The fear of uncertainty. And the beauty of still showing up.

We live in a world that’s only focused on happiness. But I don’t want to chase happiness. I want to feel everything. I want to be alive.

And being alive means letting the rain come. Not running from it.

Because you don’t get a rainbow without the rain. The rainbow only exists with the rain.

It’s not joy in the absence of pain— it’s joy that is only possible because we don’t block the pain.

Because when we shut ourselves off from one side of the emotional spectrum— when we numb the grief, the fear, the uncertainty— we numb everything else too.

You can’t selectively feel.

The rain is part of the experience. It doesn’t ruin the light— it gives it somewhere to shine through.

To live in contentment alone— to avoid the storm, to dodge the discomfort— is like living under gray skies forever. Never wet, but never really seeing the sun either.

We protect ourselves from the rain. But we forget— without it, we never see the rainbow.

But I’m not here for muted. I’m here for range. I’m here for truth. For the wild, messy spectrum of being human.

I’m here for the rainbow.

Thank you for reading. If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear in the comments. Or forward it to someone who’s been dancing in their own storms…

With love and color, The Empathetic Creature