The Rain, the Train, and the Yes
How one storm became the moment I learned to trust myself again
Rain ran down my face as I held a worn portfolio over my head, rushing across D.C. streets toward a building that felt like a doorway to another life.
My hair had frizzed, my makeup threatened to slide, and every step carried the weight of bills unpaid and children waiting at home.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to vanish. But instead, I walked into the interview room soaked and trembling, determined to make them see past the storm clinging to me.
How I Got There
Just months earlier, I had relocated to a new city with my four children and no safety net. The move was meant to be a fresh start, but survival felt like quicksand—jobs slipping through my fingers, my car repossessed, and my son ended up admitted in the hospital for days after an asthma attack.
The Department of Transportation job I thought would be our lifeline slipped away when I couldn’t make it to the first payday. Temp jobs came and went, but nothing lasted. I was exhausted, anxious, and trying to hold it all together. By the time I was called about an interview in D.C., I had no more than determination to my name.
The Walk Through the Storm
When the rain came that morning, it felt like a cruel metaphor. I ran into a CVS to salvage my hair, pinned it back into a bun, and used my portfolio as a makeshift umbrella because I couldn’t afford to buy one.
In the mirror’s harsh light, I almost didn’t recognize the woman staring back—clothes clinging to her, hair frizzed beyond repair, eyes weary from too many battles. She looked fragile, yes, but beneath the exhaustion there was something else too: the faint outline of a fighter who refused to bow out.
The Interview Room
I dried my face with paper towels, straightened my blazer as best I could, and walked in. Every step felt like defiance.
The interviewers looked up, and for a moment I braced for judgment, for the silent calculation that my appearance canceled out my worth. But then they asked me to begin.
And something shifted.
The same voice that had quivered in the mirror steadied itself. I spoke of my work, my projects, the samples I had carried through the storm. I poured out what I knew with conviction, as though the rain had rinsed away the self-doubt clinging to me.
They nodded, leaned in, and asked for more. For the first time in months, I felt seen; not as a single mother fighting to survive, not as a woman weighed down by poverty; but as someone who had something valuable to give.
The Call
When the interview ended, the agency’s point of contact walked me out with a smile. “You should hear something soon. Great job! They seemed to be impressed.”
But I couldn’t feel it. I was too heavy with disappointment, too soaked in the residue of struggle. Poverty had a way of muffling even good news. On the train ride home, I let the tears fall.
That’s when my phone rang. The agency’s point of contact’s voice came through, this time bright and urgent: “They loved you! They want to offer you the job. What are your salary requirements?”
Her question caught me off guard. Salary requirements? I hadn’t dared to think in terms of asking. Survival had conditioned me to take whatever was placed on the table. So I whispered a number just above my last paycheck—“Maybe… $60,000?”
She paused. “Sixty? We’ll give you $70,000.”
I sat still on the train, stunned. Just like that, the number shifted higher than I believed I deserved. It wasn’t market value; not with my master’s degree and years of experience, but it was life-changing compared to where I had been.
It felt like a light breaking through the tunnel, a sign that the climb out of survival mode was finally beginning.
Tears returned, but this time they weren’t bitter. They were joyous.
And in that moment, I heard spirit whisper:
This is your new bottom. You will never go lower than this again.
The Rebuild
That offer didn’t just change my bank account. It changed me.
For so long, I had lived in survival mode—accepting scraps, silencing my voice, believing that asking for more was out of reach.
But that day on the train, something inside me shifted. Even drenched and frayed, I had walked into the room and been chosen.
My work spoke louder than my circumstances.
My resilience had carried me through the storm, and my faith had steadied my trembling steps.
The rain didn’t ruin me. It baptized me.
And from that day forward, I carried the truth in my bones:
I can trust myself to rise.
Reflection Prompt for You:
Have you ever walked into a room—shaking, unprepared, certain you’d fall apart, only to discover that what you carried inside was more than enough?
I’d love to hear about it.
Wow. This gave me chills. The way you described running through the storm and still walking into that interview anyway that’s the kind of strength most people never see, but it’s exactly what makes your story unforgettable.
What hit me most was this line: “The rain didn’t ruin me. It baptized me.” That’s such a powerful reminder that sometimes the hardest, messiest moments are actually the ones preparing us for the shift we’ve been praying for.
Thank you for sharing this because so many of us have had those moments where we thought we were falling apart, when really we were being rebuilt. Your story is proof that resilience has a voice, and it will always be heard when we trust ourselves to rise.