I shiver violently, water cascading down my cheeks. A childish grin steals its way across my face and insists on staying—I let it. I turn to look toward a nearby building and, in the glow of a streetlamp, see the wind suddenly take shape and hurl a shower of rain towards me. My body tenses, teeth gritting in anticipation. It hits, soaking me as if from a fire hose. I was already completely drenched; I had been since stepping out of my apartment building and into the downpour, but each gust of wind seems at once to deepen the wetness as if reaching for my soul—for that which it can not obtain. Sirens wail in the distance. This storm came to conquer. I shiver again.

The sky lights up, the creature in the wind lashes out at me again and again, its deafening roar ever louder. My friend jumps in puddles and laughs gleefully, the sound audible over the thunder. I fear the storm for a brief moment. I fear what it can do, what it could bring. It’s trying to crush us in its onward march. And yet, the rain seems to wash away my fear. The water is a symbol—a sign: a cleansing, comforting power that can almost be heard to say, “you’re on the right path, fear not.”

The storm came to conquer, but cannot conquer me. The rain washes away my fear, warms my heart. And I am conquered.

(This happened back in August and was perhaps the first day I truly admitted to myself that I liked living in New York.)