A Morning After Rain

I woke up to the most beautiful Sunday morning. After two days of steady rain, the world outside felt fresh and new. The sky was a clear, soft blue—the kind that makes everything look clean and calm. A gentle breeze moved through the trees, and the sun was warm without being harsh—just the perfect amount of light to make you want to breathe deeply and smile.

I decided to go for a bicycle ride along the country roads. The air smelled of wet earth and wildflowers, and every turn felt like a quiet celebration of life. I felt alive—so free, so at peace. I wish he could witness and feel this too. He would be so happy. I’ll bring him here next time, I thought, riding my bike with a smile on my face.

I made sure to be back home before 11:30, just in time to get ready for the village fair. I had been looking forward to it for over a week. I was so excited. I had even planned my outfit—a baby blue skirt I had picked out days in advance. I felt so pretty in it. Everything felt just right.

We were getting ready to leave for the fair. I was all set—excited, dressed in my baby blue skirt, the one I had chosen so carefully. But just as we were about to head out, he looked at me and said, “Is this what you’re wearing? Remember what happened last time at the concert?”

I told him that I remembered—and that because I had experienced it once already, I was prepared this time, if anything were to happen.

He said that was illogical and asked me to change. He said the skirt was too long, too impractical for the muddy fairgrounds, especially after the rain we’d had over the past couple of days.

But his words weren’t just about practicality. They didn’t sound like concern. They sounded like authority. It felt like I was being corrected—like I was making a foolish decision and he knew better. But I had been clear from the start: I knew what I was wearing, and I was prepared to bear the consequences.

I told him he could share his opinion—but I needed him to trust me to make my own choice. Instead, he acted as if I didn’t know what I was doing. That stung.

I was getting annoyed. I didn’t want to explain myself. I told him he had ruined my excitement and spoiled the day. I even said I didn’t want to go anymore. He replied that I had spoiled his mood too—but he had started it. I got angry and told him to go out with someone else instead. He said, “Fine, say mean things, go down that spiral hole.” And I snapped. I told him, “You want me to suffer, don’t you? Fine—here you go.”

I threw my handbag, peeled off my socks, and crawled into bed under the blanket.

Minutes passed. He didn’t come after me. I started crying—then sobbing—and eventually, I got up. I told him through tears, “Please. I really want to go to the fair. I don’t want to be miserable. I was looking forward to it.” I begged. I pleaded. I even told him I’d change.

So I pulled out the shorts—the ones he said were better for the field—and started ironing them through my tears, crying hysterically over that ironing board. One moment I was fighting him, the next I was crumbling.

Why?

Was I looking for comfort? Hoping he would come and stop me? Hug me and say I didn’t need to change? Was I trying to be a victim, hoping to be seen? Maybe.

I sobbed like a child. The kind of sobs I remember from when I was younger, when my parents would make me change outfits before a social event, saying what I wore wasn’t “decent enough.” They always had the final say. I resisted at first, but I always gave in. And I always cried.

My husband often says, “I’m not your father or your parents to rebel against. I’m your partner.” But when he says that, it makes me feel even more angry and hurt. It feels like he’s minimizing how deep those wounds go. He also says, “You can’t just pile all your trauma on me just because I triggered you in some way.” And maybe he’s right. But the way he says it—especially in the heat of an emotional moment—makes it even harder to hear him.

In the car on the way to the fair, I told him, “You could’ve shared your opinion and left the choice to me. If I ended up sinking in mud, you could’ve teased me later.” He said, “If I did that, I wouldn’t have survived the wrath you’d unleash if I teased you.”

That hurt. I asked, “So you’ve already decided how I’d react? You assume the worst of me? That’s not fair.”

Sometimes I feel like people already have a version of me in their heads—one they’ve decided on long before I open my mouth. And when that happens, no matter what I do, I feel misjudged. So I think to myself, What’s the point of trying to be better if I’ll always be seen through that lens?

We went to the fair anyway. I kept my anger in check. So did he. On the surface, we were fine. We ate, drank beer, watched dog shows, and made conversation. But inside, I was still carrying it. That moment—me crying while ironing my shorts—kept playing in my head. And he never even acknowledged it. For him, it was over. For me, it was not.

On the way back, I brought it up again. I had to. I asked him why he didn’t come to check on me, why he let me cry alone. He said he thought I needed space, that engaging with me would’ve made things worse. But I didn’t want space. I wanted to feel seen.

I expected him to bring it up because he loves me. But he didn’t. And when I brought it up, he felt cornered. The fight reignited.

“I was hurt.”

“No, I was hurt.”

“You didn’t come to me when I needed you.”

More mean things were said. Words we didn’t mean, but that still left bruises.

“You don’t love me.”

“I should never have married you.”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

We lash out. We say reckless things. We attack the relationship, not because we don’t care—but because we care so much it scares us.

Later that night, he tried. He came to me. He wanted to reconnect. He told me to close my eyes and guided me through a visualization of my favorite field—my cat, my flowers, the swaying trees, the birds. He was trying. And so was I.

The next morning, I went to my spin class. He tried to hug me before I left, but I wasn’t ready. I was okay—but not yet ready for closeness.

On the way back, I thought a lot.

Why do we seek so much from those we love? Why do we ask them to be our mentors, our healers, our protectors—when they are only human, like us?

When I got home, I saw a box of my favorite chocolates, flowers placed in a vase, and a handwritten apology letter on my study table. I felt a soft wave of relief. He cares. He really does. And he’s trying.

But I also understood something deeper: I can’t keep expecting others to fix what was broken long before they arrived. He’s not here to heal me. He’s here to walk beside me.

And isn’t that what love really is? Not rescue, not control, not perfection—but companionship. Two people stumbling forward, hand in hand, doing their best.

We humans are funny that way. We say the harshest things to those we love most. We hurt each other in the very places where we most need to be held. We bruise the thing we cherish, not out of malice, but out of fear. Fear of being unseen, unloved, not enough. Fear of needing too much.

But love isn’t about never hurting. It’s about returning. It’s about trying again. It's about healing ourselves so we stop wounding each other in the dark.

And so I hold this truth:
I want to become the kind of woman who is whole on her own.
Who feels deeply, but is not ruled by emotion.
Who honours her past, but doesn’t live in it.
Who seeks love, not validation.
Who knows her worth, even in silence.
Who shows up, not to be rescued, but to walk beside her partner with grace and dignity.

I want to be a woman who doesn’t crumble at every conflict, who doesn’t seek attention through chaos. I want to find the calm within myself—the strength that doesn’t need to be proven, only lived.

I want to be the woman who loves deeply, but also wisely.
Soft, but not small.
Kind, but not compromising her soul.
A grown woman.
A beautiful, powerful, grounded woman.