26/07/2025
What If I Saw the Rain Through Three Eyes?
Written by Aynsberg Paez Sahagon
Illustration by Azumi Mae Alfonso
When the sky begins to grumble and the first drop falls, I shift.
Not in body—but in soul.
Sometimes, rain feels like a quiet blessing. I watch it fall from behind the glass, its rhythm soft and steady, almost like a whisper meant only for me. Wrapped in my favorite blanket, I feel its warmth press close—familiar, gentle. In my hands rests a newly published book by my favorite author, the pages still crisp, the scent of fresh ink lingering like comfort. And here in this house—where the walls don’t leak and the roof doesn’t tremble—the world outside may rush, but inside, everything is still. In that stillness, I finally understand what safety means.
In this version of myself, the rain is gentle. It becomes a curtain that separates me from the noise of the world. There is no fear—only peace.
But then I blink.
And I shift.
Now, I see the rain through another version of me—a second pair of eyes. Still me, still breathing, still lucky to have a roof overhead—but with an undercurrent of worry. Because I know that one wrong storm can change everything.
The ceiling drips sometimes. The floor trembles when the wind howls. And the creek behind our house? It rises too fast when the skies weep for too long. The Philippine Atmospheric, Geophysical and Astronomical Services Administration (PAGASA) says we’re entering the rainy season again—twenty storms expected this year.
I remember the names from past years like old enemies: Paeng. Ulysses. Yolanda. Carina.
I rush to charge the flashlight, move the sacks of rice higher, and make sure the kids have dry clothes packed—just in case we need to run.
The rain, to me now, isn’t comfort.
It’s a ticking clock.
Every downpour could be the one that floods us out.
Still, I blink.
And I shift again.
Suddenly, I become the third version of myself.
The me with no keys.
No door.
No roof.
Just skin against the storm.
Here, the rain doesn’t knock—it attacks. I curl beneath waiting sheds, pretending the wet cardboard I sleep on is still whole. People stare, but never speak. Maybe they think I’m used to this. That I don’t feel the cold, or the shame, or the hunger, or the stench of the street. That I belong to the rain now.
I watch cars pass with wipers dancing. I see silhouettes behind windows, sipping warm drinks. And I wonder—what does their rain feel like?
They say not to romanticize the storm. That behind its gray veil are stories not captured in captions.
They’re right.
Because in this version of me, the rain is not a poem.
It is punishment.
These are all me.
One body.
Three lives.
Three ways to feel the same drop.
And it isn’t just me—millions of Filipinos stand where I stand. According to the Climate Change Commission, flooding in the Philippines worsens each year not only due to stronger rains but also because our cities choke on plastic and broken systems. PAGASA issues warnings again and again—but they don’t reach everyone in the same way.
Some of us prepare.
Some of us pray.
Some of us simply try not to drown.
And yet, we continue to praise Filipino resiliency instead of holding the government accountable.
Are we really going to keep romanticizing our ability to survive, rather than demanding real solutions?
Is there truly hope for the people in a country where politicians glorify endurance instead of taking action?
Still, I wonder—
How many more times must we applaud resilience before we admit it’s being used to cover up neglect?
PAGASA keeps reminding us—storms will come, floods will rise.
But what about Pag-asa? The kind that isn’t found in slogans or sympathy, but in working drainage systems, climate-ready housing, and leaders who do more than visit evacuation centers for photo ops.
We call ourselves strong, as if strength should be our only choice.
We romanticize how Filipinos smile through storms,
while forgetting to ask—why are we always left to smile through storms in the first place?
Real hope doesn’t come from the skies clearing.
It comes from systems that don’t fail the same people again and again.
It comes when empathy turns into policy,
and when headlines stop celebrating how well we endure
—and start questioning why we always have to.
So the next time you call it sweater weather, pause.
Before you label it cozy, remember those whose pillows are soaked, whose dreams dissolve into puddles, whose nights are measured in hours of staying dry.
Yes, it’s okay to enjoy the rain.
But it’s braver to understand it.
Braver still, to act.
Because if I can be all three versions of myself in one lifetime,
Then maybe you can choose which version of you will face the storm—
Not just for yourself,
But for those still standing in it.
References & Sources:
1. PAGASA – Tropical Cyclone Information
https://www.pagasa.dost.gov.ph/climate/tropical-cyclone-information
2. Climate Change Commission – Urban Flooding and Waste
https://climate.gov.ph/news/923
