Content note: This piece discusses sensory overwhelm.

22nd of July 2025

Most people don't understand my relationship with the sky. They see a sunny day as a gift, something to be celebrated. For me, a clear, bright day is an assault. It’s an unfiltered, high-resolution torrent of data that my brain cannot refuse to process.

When I step outside, I don't just see a field. I see the chaotic, individual dance of ten thousand blades of grass, each one a distinct vector responding to the slightest shift in air pressure. I can physically see the shape of the wind as it ripples across them, a fluid dynamics simulation I can't turn off. I track the dust motes glinting in the sunbeams, the frantic energy of insects, the unpredictable paths of every person and vehicle. My mind races to process it all, to find the patterns in the overwhelming noise, and the effort is a physical weight. It’s why my body, already screaming from the constant, low-level pain of hypermobility, aches even more. It’s why I get tired just by being outside.

It’s exhausting. The only escape is to look up. To the vast, all-encompassing blue, or the soft, slow-moving architecture of the clouds. It's simpler up there. Fewer variables.

But the rain... the rain is my sanctuary. It is the only thing that simplifies the world for me.

It doesn’t just arrive; it announces itself with a change in pressure I can feel deep in my bones. Then comes the smell. Petrichor. It’s a clean, overwhelming scent of earth and ozone that acts like a reset button for my senses. It drowns out everything else—the exhaust fumes, the cloying perfumes, and most importantly, the faint, sharp smell of smoke that can send my nervous system reeling back to a house that no longer exists. Petrichor is the chemical signature of safety; fire cannot exist in the rain.

When the drops begin to fall, a great quiet descends upon the world. Not just an auditory quiet, but a visual one. The million frantic movements of the grass blades stop. Weighted down by water, they become a single, unified mass, moving in slow, predictable sways. The trees, once a complex flutter of leaves, now drip with a steady, rhythmic cadence. The dust is gone, washed from the air. The world is no longer a chaotic storm of data points. It is simplified. It becomes pure, understandable physics—water following predetermined paths I have already mapped in my mind. My brain, for once, can rest.

The rain brings a social peace, too. It’s a filter for humanity. The angry, the careless, the cruel—they don't like getting wet. The kids who shriek in the street go inside. The neighbours who let their dogs run wild, who can’t be bothered to towel off a wet animal, they stay home. The only people who walk in the rain are people like me. The ones who need the quiet. The dedicated dog walkers who understand their companion’s needs outweigh their own comfort. In the rain, the outside world is populated only by gentle souls. For a few hours, I can walk with my dog and not feel like I am navigating a minefield of potential aggressions.

This peace is so vital that I will go to desperate lengths for it. I’ve tried the rain generators, the ten-hour YouTube videos. But my brain is cruel; it’s a pattern-recognition machine that cannot be tricked. Within minutes, I map the loop. I learn the algorithm. The randomness becomes a predictable, irritating soundtrack.

So I wait for the real thing. When a proper storm is forecast, I carry my tent and an extra-thick yoga mat into the garden, despite the protest of my joints. I set it up with the door facing my flowers, so I can watch the rain do my work for me, watering them with a tenderness I understand. I lie there, cocooned, and listen to the real, truly random percussion on the tarp. And for the first time in weeks, I might fall asleep in peace.

But even this is being stolen. The long, gentle, all-day British rains I remember are mostly gone, a casualty of a changing climate. Now we get short, violent bursts. One hour of deluge, then a return to the overwhelming sun. Or patchy, five-minute showers that are nothing more than a tease. The last big storm only rained for four hours, and when it stopped, a genuine depression settled over me. It wasn't enough. I had wanted to walk for miles with my dog, in a world made soft and safe. But the sanctuary had closed its doors too soon.

So I watch the sky and I wait. I wait for the grey blanket to pull itself over the world, to mute the colours, to soften the edges, and to wash it all clean. I wait for the one time the world makes as much sense to me as it seems to for everyone else. I wait for the rain.