Settle into a comfortable position. Let your body soften into the surface beneath you—no need to hold anything up. Let your arms rest. Let your jaw relax. Let your breath begin to slow.

Close your eyes, and take a long, gentle inhale… and then let it out slowly, like a sigh you didn’t know you needed.
Again.
And again.

Now, begin to imagine the soft sound of rain falling—not a storm, not thunder, just a gentle, steady rain.
You are sitting under a small shelter, open on the sides.
The air is cool and damp. The roof above you is made of old tin or canvas or leaves—it doesn’t matter. What matters is the sound. The rhythmic tapping, the irregular music of water meeting surface. It’s soothing. Intimate. Calming.

Around you, the rain falls through trees.
You can hear it brush across leaves. Drip from branches. Collect in puddles.
Nothing rushes. Nothing pushes.
The world has slowed. And you with it.

This is one of those days.
A soft day. A day that doesn’t ask you to be productive.
A day that doesn’t require noise or answers.
Only presence. Only breath.

You sit back. You listen.
And in that listening, something inside you loosens.

There may be things you’ve been holding. Quiet heaviness. Emotions you’ve pressed to the edges. Exhaustion that doesn’t speak, but lives in your bones. Let the rain reach those places. Not to fix them—but to acknowledge them. To give them space. To let them breathe.

You are safe here. You are held. You don’t have to be anything but what you are in this moment.
Not strong. Not productive.
Just human.
Just breathing.
Just sitting under the rain.

In Stoic thought, we learn to meet each moment with acceptance. This is that, too. Acceptance doesn’t have to be fierce—it can be soft. It can sound like raindrops. It can feel like exhale. Even your tears, if they come, are part of nature’s rhythm. They are rain from within.

Let those words land gently, like rain on your skin.

You listen a little longer.
Each drop a reminder that healing doesn’t have to be dramatic.
That presence is enough.
That not every day is for shining—some are for soaking, for softening, for starting again.

You don’t need to rush back. You don’t need to dry off too quickly. The rain is still falling. And it will stop, eventually. Not because you made it stop. But because that is what rain does. It comes, it nourishes, and then it fades.

There’s no need to resist the feeling. Let it pass through you like weather across a landscape—real, undeniable, but never permanent. Just as the earth doesn’t cling to the storm nor fight against the sky, you too can allow your inner weather to come and go. The sadness, the tenderness, the quiet ache—these are part of being alive. They do not diminish you. They remind you that you are open. That you are human. And like the land after rain, something in you will feel clearer when it passes. Softer. More rooted. Washed, not weakened.

Take a breath, slow and grounded.
Feel the weight you no longer have to carry.
Feel the quiet dignity of simply being.

And when you’re ready, gently return.
Wiggle your fingers. Notice your breath.
Open your eyes softly, as if the world is still a little damp and quiet.

Take your time. Stay under the rain, if you’d like.

Take care, my friend.
And may you carry the calm of soft days with you, even after the sky clears.