The World In a Raindrop

One day I was asked to share something interesting about myself. I sat there for a moment, stuck, not knowing which part of me was more interesting than the other. Then it hit me! What I always rediscover about myself is, in fact, the most interesting thing of all. I am the kind of person who turns everyday moments into stories, whether through writing or conversation. I am deeply curious about people and their lived experiences.

Not long ago, one of the training wheels on my daughter’s bicycle broke. We set out to find a bike repairer and thankfully, we found one. It was a rainy day, the kind of rain that soaks through clothes and leaves you cold and uncomfortable. It was not a good day to spend time outdoors, but we had no choice. It was something we had to do for our daughter.

Finding the repairer felt like luck, but what caught my attention was where he was working. He sat under a tree that barely provided any shelter. If anything, the branches caused the rainwater to drip directly onto him as he worked. He repaired bicycles and mended shoes from that same spot. Despite the rain, he worked as if nothing unusual was happening.

I noticed he was barefoot, soaked to the skin and completely unbothered. He seemed used to it. As
curious as I am, I began to observe his space while he fixed the bike. What struck me first was a small fire he had built under the tree, using sticks he had picked up nearby, even as the rain continued to fall. On the fire sat a small pot. He was cooking green leafy vegetables. I do not know what vegetables they were.

I looked around to see what he would eat them with and noticed a plastic container covered by another pot. Inside was nsima, Malawi’s staple food. In that moment, I could not help but wonder about his day, his life and how many people like him we pass without truly seeing.

I learned afew lessons from this man:

Watching him work in the rain, barefoot and unbothered, I saw resilience in its quietest form, not announced with words or a public spectacle, but shown in the simple act of showing up and doing what needed to be done. His dignity wasn’t tied to comfort or recognition; it was in the care and attention he gave to each task, no matter how small and in the pride he took in honest work that might never be noticed by anyone else. And as I stood there, observing him, I felt a quiet lesson in compassion too: the reminder that every person carries a story worth noticing, a life full of struggles and strength and that the more we slow down and truly see one another, the richer and more meaningful our own lives become.

As 2025 comes to a close, my wish for myself and for anyone reading this is simple: slow down, notice and stay curious. Listen to the people around you and recognize the quiet courage in everyday life. Show compassion not just in grand gestures but in the little ways that offer kind words or simply your attention because sometimes the most profound lessons don’t come from big events and influential people but from little raindrops and the quiet humanity we share with one another.