Finding Safety in the Sound of Rain

Finding Safety in the Sound of Rain

Rain has a way of returning me to myself.

Rain, Memory, and Feeling Safe

On Sunday morning, we were staying on top of a mountain in Virginia near Bears Den, an Appalachian Trail hikers’ lodge. My partner hiked the entire Appalachian Trail over three summers. I, however, am not a hiker. I love taking walks and being outside, but I would never willingly venture more than a mile on that trail. As a Girl Scout, I was never a fan of lugging a backpack and sleeping bag on my back. Put me in a tent or under a tree, though, and I would sleep almost anywhere in the woods. That was before I read Reader’s Digest stories about snakes looking for a warm sleeping bag to cuddle into beside a human, or bears searching for food.

Anyway, back to Sunday morning. I woke early after spending the night with my cousin, who lives on top of that mountain surrounded by nature. As my eyes adjusted to the mist-filled dawn, I heard rain pounding on the roof above me, and I immediately felt at home. The sound carried me back to summers at Girl Scout camp and to camping trips with my parents and brother. I love the sound of rain, especially the many ways it splashes against trees and leaves.

Perhaps these early memories were the beginning of my mindfulness practice: noticing what was happening around me, and noticing how my body responded.

The next time you hear rain, see what you notice and how your body responds to that sound. As a kid, being outside was my refuge. My safe place. My parents were happy when we were camping. We camped in a primitive way, with an old Army tent that smelled of years of wear and mildew. There were no air mattresses, only old Army cots and smelly sleeping bags. But I was happy. I could disappear into the woods, play in the streams, and catch salamanders and little toads.

Even now, the rain brings me back to that child who felt safest when the woods were close, and the world was softened by sound.

“Even now, the rain brings me back to that child who felt safest when the woods were close, and the world was softened by sound.”

Revisiting Childhood Memories with Tenderness

I share this as an opening into a life that was, at times, extremely painful. I also share it because, as I revisit these memories, I can recognize that not everything about growing up was miserable. I was not miserable all the time. The guys from Dharma Lab, Richie Davidson, PhD, and Courtland Dahl, PhD, from the University of Wisconsin, discuss the relationship we have with our memories and how we can “reconsolidate” those memories from a different perspective as adults. For me, one way of coping in challenging times is to notice the simple, precious moments that still exist alongside the pain. In my last blog post, I shared about the musician Noah Kahan and the deeply moving words and music he plays. He, too, finds peace and solace in his home state of Vermont—the fields and ponds, the trees, and the comfort of place.

Where Do You Feel Safe and Comforted?

So I wonder, as you read or listen to this, where do you feel safe and comforted? Is there a place, a sound, a smell, a person, a pet, a blanket, a song, a tree, or a memory that helps your body soften a little? This is one of the reasons I keep thinking about Mindful Moments with Maude, and the way a beloved pet can become a source of comfort when the world feels frightening or uncertain. When you think back to childhood, are there moments—large or small—that still carry a sense of comfort,  safety, or peace? Are there memories you might be willing to gently revisit now, from the perspective of the older, wiser person you have become? And if a child is listening, they might begin simply: by noticing what helps them feel calm and safe, drawing a picture of it, telling a trusted grown-up about it, or remembering one small moment when their body felt peaceful.

“Where do you feel safe and comforted?”

A Child-Friendly Mindfulness Exercise

A child-friendly memory exercise might sound like this: If it feels okay, close your eyes or look softly at one spot in the room. Take three slow breaths. Now remember a time when you felt safe, cozy, or cared for. What did you see? What did you hear? Was there a smell, a color, a person, an animal, or a special object nearby? Parents and trusted grown-ups can make this more personal by sharing one of their own safe memories first, then inviting the child to draw, describe, or simply point to something that feels comforting. The goal is not to force a memory, but to help the child notice what safety feels like in their body and to know they do not have to explore those memories alone. Children could draw that memory, talk about it, or keep it in their hearts as a place they can visit when they need comfort. However we begin, the invitation is simply to notice what brings even a small sense of safety, and to let that awareness grow gently over time. With practice, this remembered place of safety can become something a child carries with them, a gentle reminder that comfort can be found again.

Creating Comforting Spaces for Children

Maybe this is where healing begins: not by changing the past, but by learning to meet our memories with tenderness, curiosity, and the possibility of feeling safe now. For me, finding calm, comfort, and peace when the world around me feels chaotic is a daily practice. I try to bring that peace into my personal and work life by creating comforting environments with less clutter, even though I still have piles of books and papers. When we’re children, we have limited agency to create these kinds of spaces, and we rely on the adults who love us to help provide them. And yet, children can still be included in the conversation. We can ask them what helps them feel calm, safe, and comforted; what they notice in their bodies; and what small things might help create that kind of environment within their family. As adults—and for the children in our care—how might we create or recreate spaces at home, at school, or at work where we can find more ease, comfort, and peace in our lives?

“Maybe this is where healing begins: not by changing the past, but by learning to meet our memories with tenderness, curiosity, and the possibility of feeling safe now.”

Where Safety Finds Us

In the end, this is an invitation to notice where safety lives—in a sound, a memory, a place, a body, a beloved pet, an object, or a relationship—and to practice returning there with gentleness. In Mindful Moments with Maude, the dog, Maude becomes the comfort Addie finds after a scary storm, reminding us that safety can sometimes arrive through the steady presence of someone—or some creature—we love. Whether we are adults revisiting our own childhoods or children learning to name what helps us feel calm and cared for, these small moments of comfort can become part of how we heal, connect, and create more peaceful spaces together.

May we keep listening for the small places where safety finds us, and may we help the children in our lives recognize and carry those places with them.

“Savor the Moments”
DrPamm