My Thunderous Epiphany

While my mom was receiving treatment at The Meadows, a place where they treat trauma and mental health, my mom's parents, my dad, two of my three sisters, and I embarked on a family week visit. The Meadow's allure was undeniable with its captivating desert gardens and inviting pools. Back in seventh grade, I struggled to comprehend why anyone would resist being there. To me, it resembled an adult camp, complete with a soda machine. My mom led us to her room, and it felt oddly surreal seeing her sleep in a bed other than the one at home. My heart yearned for our familiar haven, spending time in the backyard frolicking with our beloved dog, Max.

I walked closely alongside my dad as we made our way to the group therapy office, a sense of apprehension taking hold. The presence of all these adults at The Meadows puzzled me. Were they facing similar challenges to my mom's? As I glanced to my left, I caught sight of the chilled pool, daydreaming of jumping into the deep end. I pleaded with my dad to let me go swimming instead of joining him for group therapy, but my plea fell on deaf ears. The sun's glare off the stone walkway dazzled my eyes, its heat causing fatigue to settle in. My presence in that moment was against my wishes; discussing the bottled-up emotions seemed inconceivable. Although I struggled to grasp the concept of The Meadows fully, the emotions surrounding me were all too palpable. My dad's concern, my mom's pain, my grandparents' worry, and my sisters' agony emanated strongly. I suppressed their emotions within me, locking them away. How often do we suppress our emotions when life gets tough? 

We found ourselves seated on chairs and couches, my mind drawing a blank on most of the conversation due to my tender age. However, I recall a therapist urging me to release my anger by screaming aloud. Baffled, I stared at her until she directed my attention to the door. Stepping up to the frame, I gazed out at the arid desert landscape and let out a piercing scream, drawing from the depths of my seventh-grade lungs. Within seconds a giant boom of thunder _­happened, and my family and the therapists smirked at the weather’s response to my scream. A massive storm cloud started rolling in. The therapist made a joke that I must have had a lot of anger to create a storm that loud in the desert. At that moment, I felt like a higher power knew my pain and let me see it for my own eyes in the form of a storm. I didn’t want to leave the door frame. Something about tangibly seeing the storm was healing. I could see my scream, my voice. I needed my voice.

Significant moments in my life always seem to coincide with thunderstorms. It's as though God is reassuring me of Her presence. Thunder becomes the breath of life infused into my lungs, a steadfast companion through life's trials. When I graduated from high school, a resounding thunderclap coincided with the ritualistic tassel shift. On days when exhaustion followed visits to the ER with my mom, distant rumbles of thunder would greet my awakening. It always arrived at the precise moment my heart craved it most. Sometimes, God doesn't grant the monumental miracles we wish for; instead, a subtle reminder of our worth amidst the pain: we are loved. Thunder is my enduring reminder that love remains, regardless of circumstances.

One evening, during our time in Arizona, we pulled over at a roadside diner to satisfy our hunger with hamburgers. My reputation as a picky eater held true, prompting my family to push me to order a hamburger and try something new. Exasperated, I complied and selected a Western Burger, adorned with my favorite toppings: bacon, barbecue sauce, and onion rings. The taste was exquisite, revealing how long I had denied myself the pleasure of a burger. As we relished our juicy meals, the recollection of that day's therapy session unfolded. Storms, both internal and external, were now unlocked. In my pocket, I reached for the coin bearing the Serenity Prayer—a constant reminder of life's inevitable uncertainties. "Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."

My thunderstorms, a product of my mom's journey through therapy and treatment, have become emblematic of my path to healing and acceptance. I cannot alter what is out of my control, and in moments of forgetfulness, I turn to thunder and prayer for guidance. I hold faith that God comprehends more than I do and speaks through the sound of thunder when I need it most. While not an audible voice, it is a story told through sound—an assurance that resonates deep within me. 

I've learned suppressing can only get you so far. It's impossible to go through this life unscathed. Let it out, dear one, like thunder rolling across the sky.