The weather app said "scattered showers."

This is not scattered showers. This is biblical. This is ark-building weather. This is the kind of rain that makes you wonder if you've somehow personally offended God and He's getting specific about it.

I'm standing in the doorway of The Hot Mess, watching sheets of water turn Main Street into a river, and I'm trying to decide if closing early makes me responsible or cowardly.[^1]

No customers for the last hour. No one's walking around in this. Even the pigeons have given up and gone home, which—honestly, if pigeons are like "nope, not today," you know it's bad.

I flip the sign to CLOSED, kill the lights, and grab my umbrella from behind the counter.

It's the cheap kind from the gas station. Jennifer said I should get a "nice one" but I said "why spend money on something I'll just lose?" and Jennifer said "that's very on-brand for you" and I'm not sure that was a compliment.

The umbrella lasts approximately forty-five seconds.

One gust of wind and it turns inside-out, like the universe is personally offended by my attempt at preparation. The metal ribs snap. The fabric flaps uselessly. I'm standing there holding what is essentially a broken flower on a stick, and I'm already soaked.

Like, completely soaked. Hair plastered to my face. Glasses already fogging up (and also rain-splattered, which is its own special kind of blindness). My jeans—my JEANS, the symbol of my freedom—are clinging to my legs in a way that is deeply uncomfortable.

I could call Jennifer.

She'd come. She'd probably bring towels and a lecture about why I need a nice umbrella and maybe hot chocolate because that's how Jennifer operates. Rescue missions with accessories.

I could call Dad.

He'd come too. Wouldn't say much. Would probably put his jacket over my shoulders even though I'm already too wet for it to matter. Would drive the seven minutes to my apartment in complete silence and text me later: "You okay?"

I could stand here under the awning until it passes.

But something in me—something new, something that wasn't there a year ago—says: Just walk.

So I do.

The rain is cold. Of course it's cold. It's December. It's the kind of cold that seeps through your clothes immediately and makes you question every life choice that led to this moment.

I'm walking down Main Street with my broken umbrella (I'm still carrying it, why am I still carrying it, I don't know), and I'm laughing.

Not the nervous laugh I do when I'm uncomfortable. Not the self-deprecating "this is fine" laugh when I've knocked over another thing. This is—this is actual laughter. The kind that comes from somewhere deeper than anxiety. The kind that surprised even me.

I look ridiculous.

My hair is completely plastered to my head. My glasses are useless. My clothes are stuck to me in ways that would've sent Mother into a spiral about modesty and "what people will think" and appropriate weather-preparedness as a reflection of one's spiritual state.[^2]

A year ago, I would've been mortified. I would've been calculating how fast I could get home, how to avoid being seen, how to explain this disaster to anyone who witnessed it.

Now?

Now I'm walking down the middle of an empty street in a rainstorm, carrying a dead umbrella, laughing at the sky.

This is what freedom looks like, apparently.

Soggy. Ridiculous. Mine.

There's a parking lot on the corner of Main and Fourth. It's got this massive puddle—more like a small lake, really—right in the center. The drainage is terrible. Jennifer and I complain about it every time we walk past.

Today, I stop in front of it.

The rain is still coming down. The puddle is growing. It's probably six inches deep, spreading across half the lot.

Old Rena would've walked around it carefully. Would've worried about getting her shoes wet (even though they're already soaked). Would've worried about someone seeing her splash through like a child.

New Rena thinks: When was the last time I jumped in a puddle?

And then thinks: Why shouldn't I?

And then—before the anxiety spiral can start, before the voices of "what will people think" and "you're almost thirty" and "this is childish" can get their footing—I jump.

Both feet. Right in the center.

The splash is spectacular. Water goes everywhere. My jeans (already soaked) are now somehow more soaked. I'm laughing so hard I snort, which makes me laugh harder, which makes me jump again.

I'm dancing. I'm literally dancing in a parking lot puddle in a rainstorm with a broken umbrella still somehow in my hand, and I'm laughing, and I'm crying (or maybe that's just the rain), and I cannot believe this is my life.

One year ago, I was living in my parents' house, wearing jean skirts, afraid of everything.

Now I'm here.

Thunder cracks overhead. I should probably go home. I should probably stop dancing in a puddle like a maniac where anyone could see me.

I jump one more time instead.

The splash is glorious.

By the time I get to my apartment, I've left a trail of water from the front door to the kitchen. My shoes are making that terrible squelching sound. My glasses are so fogged and rain-splattered I've just taken them off and accepted temporary blindness.

I'm dripping. Like, aggressively dripping. There's a puddle forming around my feet. My teeth are chattering a little. I should probably take my shoes off but I'm frozen (literally AND metaphorically this time—that rain was COLD) by the realization that I'm standing in MY apartment, in MY space, looking like an absolute disaster, and I'm happy.

Not "making the best of it" happy.

Not "well, at least I'm home now" happy.

Just... happy.

I make coffee. Because of course I do. That's what I do now. I make coffee at odd hours because I can, because no one's telling me it'll keep me up, because freedom tastes like Ethiopian Yirgacheffe at 4 PM on a rainy Tuesday.[^3]

The coffee maker gurgles. I'm still dripping. I've left wet footprints across the entire kitchen. Mother would be having a fit about the water damage, the mess, the complete lack of basic planning that led to this situation.

I pour my coffee into my favorite mug (the one that says "Hot Mess" that Jennifer got me as a joke).

Then I do what any reasonable person would do: I change into dry clothes. Sweatpants. Oversized t-shirt. Thick socks. The kind of outfit that says "I've given up on the outside world and I'm fine with it."

I grab the blanket from my cozy chair and wrap myself up properly. Then I sit by the window with my coffee.

The storm is still raging outside. Rain hammering against the glass. Thunder rolling through every few minutes. The sky is this deep purple-grey that's either beautiful or apocalyptic depending on your mood.

I'm going with beautiful.

Romans 8:1 floats through my mind, but this time it's different. It's not a weapon I'm using to fight back guilt. It's not something I'm desperately clinging to while anxiety tries to drown me.

It's just... there. Like breathing. Like knowing.

There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus.

Now.

Not "eventually, after you've gotten your act together."

Not "once you stop being a mess."

Not "when you've earned it by making better decisions and not dancing in parking lot puddles like a child."

Now.

I sip my coffee. It's perfect, obviously. Some things I can control. The coffee is one of them.

Everything else? Negotiable.

The storm rages. The thunder rolls. My apartment smells like coffee and rain and possibility.

I'm sitting here wrapped in a blanket, warm and dry now, watching the storm, and I'm thinking about the girl I was a year ago.

That girl was afraid of everything. Rain. Mess. Judgment. Her own thoughts. Freedom itself.

That girl would've called someone to rescue her from the storm.

This woman danced in a puddle.

I raise my coffee mug to my reflection in the rain-streaked window. "Here's to scattered showers," I say out loud to no one. "And to discovering that rain is not actually the enemy."

The thunder answers. It sounds almost like agreement.

I laugh again, and this time there's no one here to hear it but me.

That's enough.

That's more than enough.

That's everything.

[^1]: The responsible answer is probably "responsible." The anxiety answer is "definitely cowardly, everyone will judge you, you're a failure." I went with responsible. Growth!

[^2]: Mother once gave me a thirty-minute lecture about how being prepared for weather was evidence of "wisdom and foresight" and being caught in the rain was evidence of "foolishness and pride." She used Job 5:14 somehow. I'm still not sure how she connected those dots but she was very passionate about it.

[^3]: The funny thing about freedom is that it's made of approximately 60% coffee and 40% spite. The coffee is better quality than the spite, but they both serve their purpose.