I grew up in Phoenix and have fond memories of summer “monsoons” in the desert. Each year was so dry and arid; winter was practically non-existent (in fact, I distinctly remember running out to meet the ice cream man wearing shorts and a t-shirt one Christmas Eve). The summer rain represented the only visible marker of a change in seasons.

I really used to enjoy those summer storms. The warm rain offered reprieve from the hot, summer sun. Most of the time there would be a blackout. My mom would light candles when the power was out for any extended period of time, and I would crawl into bed in my pajamas and listen to the thunder. I was always amazed at how even when it was rainy and stormy outside, the sun would never stop shining.

When my family moved to the Midwest when I was in high school, I became acquainted with a different type of storm. These storms were ominous and dark. The sky opened up in a torrential downpour, sometimes raining down golf ball sized hail. Choosing to go to the University of Kansas for undergrad meant even more scary storms. I woke up one Sunday during my junior year to watch the Lawrence “microburst” of 2006 pass over my bedroom window and wreck havoc on the rest of the city, as my sorority sisters and I ran for cover on the first floor. Another summer I almost nearly got swept away in a flash flood when trying to make my way back from errands in Kansas City. It took 45 minutes of white-knuckled driving and lots of prayers muttered under my breath to drive just a few miles to safety. Midwestern storms quite literally blew Arizona monsoons out of the water.

I am now more than halfway through my first summer as a resident of Scotland. I have quickly learned the weather is quite predictable in Scotland: rain is a daily occurrence no matter what the season. In fact, I’ve lost count of how many umbrellas I’ve surrendered to the harsh northern winds, and I’ve given up carrying one altogether. I had just about reached my limit of this weather last week. I was frustrated that my summer was almost over without ever really getting much of a summer at all (with the exception of a few days in Croatia and a week in Tuscany, where luckily the sun was shining with the temperatures to match). The gladiator sandals I bought in April, with dreams of breezy summer dresses and picnics in the park filling my head, lay pretty much untouched in the corner of my room. Instead, I’m wearing boots and leggings to combat the cold wetness that has permeated most of my June and almost all of my July. I was mourning the loss of warm weather and sunshine last Friday, locked up inside, hunched over my laptop working on my master’s thesis (which I’ve unfortunately put off as long as possible).

A rain soaked morning finally gave way to sunshine, while I was stuck inside cursing my own procrastination. But then, while the sun was still blazing in the sky, the rain began to come down in torrents and light cracks of thunder filled my ears. All of the sudden it struck a chord in me. I was taken back to my 7-year-old self, relishing in the sunny desert rain. I stood at the window for a few moments admiring the lush, wet greenery on the outside, wondering why I wasn’t more thankful for the refreshing rain. All at once I realized how really blessed I am. All the stress of my thesis and the mountain of tasks in front of me dropped away. I took that much needed moment to spend in gratitude.

And then just like that the rain stopped. With the sun still shining I threw on my sneakers and went for the first rain-free run I’ve had all summer.

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