I always found the power of Mother Nature to be mesmerizing. When I was young, I had a fear of thunderstorms, but I think that was attributed to a frantic mother who always worried about losing power. Today, there's that same kind of fear, except it's interlaced with excitement and adrenaline.

The frenzy starts with the force of the hard rain beating downward. The darkened clouds that shatter the daylight within seconds. And then there's that initial crack in the sky - it's music to my ears. The best thunderstorms occur late in the night, when the world is fast asleep, but the booming sounds unexpectedly wake everyone up in confusion. I lay in my bed, listening, feeling my room shake, and wonder if the roof could fly off.

I imagine Mother Nature using a thunderstorm to release her own pressures of life. As if she keeps everything bottled up, until it overflows, and realizes that she can't keep it concealed anymore. Once that terrifying rumble is freed, everything spills out. As if it was an escape from confinement that was craved for so long.

And I know what it’s like: to remain silent while waiting for my own thunder to erupt. I relate to the feeling of having the pain and sadness destroy me from the inside out. Listening to the echo of the clapping thunder and seeing the lightening illuminate my room provides solace. I think I’m addicted to being scared of the destruction thunderstorms could bring because the outcomes on both our parts are ambiguous. It's both a peaceful and wild feeling. Because of this, I welcome the anger, I welcome the release.

In the midst of the storm, a part of me usually wants to run out and stand under it all, just so I can have the rain cleanse me of all the sorrow. The other part of me yearns to curl up in bed, listening to the wind and rain hitting my window, and be grateful for the distraction it brings. The latter habitually happens; the former being wishful thinking, but it's only because I dread waking up with a cold the next morning.

At least I know that if one thing's true, there's always the calm after the storm.