Storms
- Shum
- Jun 29
- 2 min read
The other night, my wife and I sat in our living room, in the dark, and watched a classic summer storm.
It was beautiful.
Then it got very loud.
It's as if someone moved the shower head, lightning flashes, and thunder drums right over our house.
I remember saying to her, "This won't last long."
I was right.
It lasted for another two or three minutes at most.
I am not a wizard. I just remember learning—I can't recall exactly when—that intense precipitation doesn't last long.
I am sure there are exceptions to this, but on the whole if it's really pouring hard, it likely won't stay that way.
What I found strange about this was the certainty with which I knew it a few nights ago.
Why don't we have this level of certainty about storms of a different nature?
***
Literally as I type these words, our daughter is having a fairly strong tantrum.
It's hair-related, I think. Something about her hating her hair.
There are a few ear-splitting screams and some guttural roars—not unlike the music of the storm the other night.
Our daughter has had a few storms lately.
Each one hasn't lasted very long, though it's impossible to know that when it comes on.
When it comes on, time feels eternal.
When it comes on, keeping my distance from it feels impossible.
My wife and I feel like we can't just turn off the lights, sit in the darkness, and watch it happen.
To be fair, we haven't tried that. Yet.
Our daughter's storms force us to close our distance, whereas natural storms force us to keep our distance.
***
Ever since the storm (natural, not daughter-generated) the other night, I've been thinking about what storms teach us.
I've landed on two things for now.
The very tip of intensity is sharp, and short.
If viewed from a distance, storms can actually be quite beautiful.
This makes me think about how nature prepares for a storm. The still, eerie calm. The air changes, the sky shifts, and if you’re paying attention, you can smell the rain before it even begins. The leaves flip over, the birds go quiet or disappear altogether. It’s subtle, but it’s all part of how the natural world anticipates and responds.
I watched the same storm with my kids. One stood at the window, eyes wide, wanting to see every flicker of lightning. The other curled up and wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening. It reminded me how co-regulation isn’t a one-size-fits-all response. It’s knowing who you’re with, where they are emotionally, and adjusting in the moment—like nature does—instinctively, gently, wisely.