It’s raining in Santa Barbara, again. Our patio furniture is moldy. Our palm tree is moated. I dump water from our potted cacti every morning. And I’m surfing less. Santa Barbara is outpacing Seattle’s year-to-date average with 15 inches of rainfall. I can’t believe I’m saying this, after years of California drought, but it takes imagination to remember summer; the season where sun was a given.
My life during medical school and residency paralleled Santa Barbara’s 2023 forecast; I expected rain, got used to rain, and if it weren’t for a previous season, I may have accepted an overcast fate.
I once knew a life where I woke without snoozing, and Sunday nights were marked by readiness, not distraction. That season was a two-year run with HealthCorps, where I taught health to middle and high schoolers. I earned $27,000 and was overcompensated. Monday through Friday, I encouraged students to live a healthy, meaningful life. Does it get better than that? I thought not, and as I said goodbye at the end of my two-year contract, I mourned the loss of meaningful work and wondered if I’d ever get it back. It’s a similar feeling now as I stare at sheets of rain hiding the ocean and mountains; will the sun ever come back?
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As I ventured through seasons of burnout and depression, I couldn’t forget that sunny memory in my soul. If I knew it once, I’ll know it again, I thought, daily. Without that memory, I’m not sure I’d have made it through. It became an icon of blind faith.
Faith against what? Permanence. While depressed and hopeless, I wanted to believe life couldn’t get better, that the sun didn’t exist. Resignation was easier than hope, at least it was certain, but it wasn’t true to my memory.
Ultimately, this is when the rain found its worth in my life. If I kept open the possibility (not knowing when) that rain may cease, that sun may show, it allowed me to ask questions like, “How do I need to change? What am I avoiding? How did I get here?” Rain made me pause.
Depressions. Storms. Mid-life crises. Floods. The beauty is in their brevity… if we can remember.
The storms in my life were necessary. I’m grateful for the questions they asked. And I’m glad they’ve passed, with me back in the sun. Santa Barbara will have its sunny day too.
That’s solace I’ll take, because if I know anything, it will rain again… and I’ll remember.
(P.S. The subject matter above is similar to an interview I heard on Peter Attia’s podcast with Lewis Howes. Very inspiring listen. Linked here.)
Growing up as I did, in chaos and abuse, I learned to cherish a good storm. It was the only thing that would put fear into the hearts of those who wanted to control the lives of others who shared time and space. Personally, I quite like the dark and shadowy season of rain. I find it restful and cleansing. I could be quite content with an unending winter of constant rain.