Raining Cats and Dogs: A Life Lived in the Storm
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It’s been raining cats and dogs my entire life. Not the cute kind. The kind that turns the
ground to mud, floods the gutters, and leaves you soaked before you’ve even stepped outside. I’m burnt out. Not temporarily, not seasonally. Chronically. I haven’t slept well my entire adult life. I had four children in five years, which meant I was basically pregnant from nineteen to twenty‑four. Then came raising my adorable mob. When my youngest finally started school, I added a full‑time job. Ten years later, I stacked a college degree on top of the job, on top of the kids, on top of everything else. It felt like trying to outrun a storm that never let up.
Now my children are grown. I finally have a good job. I finally have time to write my novels. But years of living in a downpour — on the edge of my income, the edge of my sanity — carved habits into me that don’t just disappear because the weather finally calmed down. So how do you change after a lifetime of surviving storms? How do you stop bracing for rain when rain is all you’ve ever known?
🌧 Growing Up in a Downpour
I’ve always been addicted to challenge. When I was eleven, I used to sprint up a steep little knoll near my house, timing myself to reach the top in under five minutes. Maybe that was my first storm drill — learning to run uphill in the rain. That instinct never left. I like having too much to do. It quiets the demons. It exhausts me enough to sleep. But even storms get old.
I’ve tried everything. Meditation, yoga, tea, journaling, every expert’s advice. I’ve gone dairy-free, gluten-free, meat-free. I’ve tried acupuncture, anti‑anxiety meds, and spent hundreds on holistic remedies. Most of them are placebos. Umbrellas in a hurricane. Some of us are simply wired in ways society deems broken or unfit.
🌧 Storm Biology
I am obsessive. I can write for sixteen hours straight. I can do yard work until my body collapses. I don’t seem to have the internal alarm that says “stop." Maybe it’s from years of working graveyard shifts. Maybe it’s from trauma. Maybe it’s just how I’m built. Add lupus to the mix — stress and sunlight are my sworn enemies — and I guess you could say I’m a neurotic vampire. A creature designed for cloud cover.
Maybe this isn’t the healthiest way to see myself. But I’ve come to believe that the key to happiness is self‑acceptance, warts and all.
🌧 Creatures Built for Weather
I am a high‑functioning hot mess. Trauma shaped my early years. I adapted to survive. Some of those adaptations are wild, maybe even unhealthy. But they’re mine. They’re part of my ecosystem now.
My mom used to call me a platypus: a strange creature that shouldn’t exist but does. One that can live in multiple environments, lay eggs, and breathe underwater. Maybe that’s what happens when life rains cats and dogs for decades. You evolve into something odd, resilient and able to survive weather other people never experience.
🌧 The Truth About Storm People
So, here’s my long‑winded point: you and I both need to accept ourselves. We aren’t perfectly healthy. We aren’t fully functional. We have adaptations that might shorten our lives—or might be the very reason we succeed. You can live with chronic burnout. You can survive chronic pain. You can be happy even when you aren’t the poster child for mental health. This is why my stories are gritty and real. This is why I see the world the way I do. Who we decide we are is all about perspective.
And I’ve decided I’m good with it... even if it is STILL raining cats and dogs.
My Two Cents: Ways to Learn to Accept Yourself (Even When You’re a Functional Disaster)
Name your dysfunctions honestly — Not to shame yourself, but to understand the adaptations you built to survive.
Identify what your “chaos skills” actually do for you — Overworking, obsessing, hyper‑focusing — they all have roots and purposes.
Practice compassionate self‑observation — Notice your patterns without attacking yourself for them.
Redefine what “functional” means — Your version of functioning may not look like anyone else’s, and that’s okay.
Build micro‑boundaries — Tiny limits that don’t threaten your identity but protect your health.
Let go of the fantasy version of you — The one who sleeps eight hours, eats perfectly, and never burns out. She’s fictional.
Find meaning in your oddities — The traits you call “broken” may be the source of your creativity, grit, or empathy.
Choose compassion over correction — You don’t need to fix everything. You need to understand yourself deeply.
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