Hoping for(Inner)Rain

On the quiet conversation between knowing and doing — and why change rarely feels like revelation.

I. The Ache Before the Rain

I wake up with a sore neck and a sharp ache in my elbow.

Another padel tournament awaits me today.

I should be excited, but instead I find myself staring at the sky, hoping it rains.

Not because I dislike the game — I love it, maybe too much. But if it rains, I won’t have to play. That’s how far it’s come: I’m praying for bad weather to save me from my own compulsions.

I’m tired. I haven’t been sleeping well — six hours a night, light and restless. My Oura ring confirms what my body already knows: deep sleep has deserted me.

And yet, nothing dramatic is happening. No crises, no major stress. Life, if anything, is calmer than usual. So why do I feel drained?

II. Reading as Oxygen

One thing that still keeps me alive — really alive, is reading. I’m deep into Ian McEwan’s latest novel. What a literary giant. The way he crafts a story— shocks, awes and intrigues you all in one sitting.

I finished it hungry for more and have now picked up When Nietzsche Wept. Yalom may not have McEwan’s mastery of language, but perhaps he’ll make up for it with psychological insight — something to help me enter Nietzsche’s mind, not just his myth.

We all need some daily ‘vital engagement’ that pulls us beyond ourselves. For me, that hour of reading deep books (Literary, Philosophy, Psychology, History) in the morning has become my anchor.

Reading feels like oxygen. It’s not for a goal anymore. I read because I want to feel alive again — to sit inside thought rather than scroll through fragments.

III. The Weight of the World

But when I lift my eyes from the page, the world feels heavy. Every headline is bait. Every story exaggerated, every tragedy sold for clicks.

Outrage has become the default mode of attention—the new oxygen — addictive, shallow, and depleting.

The news is no longer there to inform us but to exhaust us — to keep us angry, scrolling, hooked.

Sometimes I think our nervous systems were never designed for this much stimulation, this much access to other people’s pain and stupidity.

In quieter moments, I sense a kind of despair — not about one specific issue, but about the collective fatigue of living in a world that never stops shouting.

IV. Presence Without the Phone

Lately I’ve been thinking about presence — real, unmediated presence. What happens when I leave my phone in another room?

At first, it feels wrong. I reach for it automatically, as if my hand has a memory of its own. But after ten, fifteen minutes, something softens. I start noticing the birds, the light on the table, and the taste of coffee. The world returns.

It’s strange that something so simple feels revolutionary — to be here, without a screen.

James Clear writes in Atomic Habits that change isn’t about massive overhauls but small, consistent actions that align with who you want to become. Every decision, he says, is a vote for the kind of person you wish to be.

Perhaps the simplest habit is to leave the phone behind.

Not as a grand act of discipline, but as a small daily vote for attention, for calm, for being where you are.

Each time you resist the scroll, you cast a quiet vote for presence.

V. The Inner Rain

Maybe that’s what this season of my life is about — pausing so that I can turn knowing into doing through smaller, quieter acts. Not resolutions or reinventions, but gentle votes cast each day for rest and renewal.

This morning, with my sore neck and the sky heavy with clouds, I realise something:

Change isn’t a revelation but a slow practice — a conversation between knowing and doing.

Maybe the rain I’m hoping for isn’t outside at all.

Maybe it’s an inner rain — a pause, a cleansing, a chance to rest long enough for life to feel new again.