Facing Emotional Challenges: The Weight of a Rainy Friday

Facing Emotional Challenges: The Weight of a Rainy Friday

Today is one of those gray, soaking wet days where everything feels just a little heavier. The rain hasn’t let up, and neither has the weight I’ve been carrying.

My Friday morning routine started as usual with men’s Bible study. But something about today feels… off. Maybe it’s the weather, or maybe it’s just one of those days where the grind of it all presses in a little closer.

Normally, I’d head to my local library after study—it’s a quiet place of refuge, somewhere to read, write, or just sit and breathe. But today it doesn’t open until 1:00 p.m. The main branch is open, but I avoid it when I can. There’s an atmosphere there that I find difficult—too much tolerated chaos, too many unsettling behaviors. Still, with the rain falling hard and the cold soaking into my bones, I might not have a choice. Having nowhere to go is a cold reminder of how precarious stability can be.

It’s a fish day at the shelter, which means I’ll be skipping lunch. I’ve never liked fish and haven’t found the strength to start now. That might sound like complaining, and maybe it is. But days like this expose the hard truths—like how having a dry place to sit, a warm meal, or a bathroom you don’t have to share with fifty strangers, is actually a privilege. One many don’t even think twice about.

I wandered through the grocery store today, biding time, waiting for the hot food counter to open. That’s my backup plan for lunch. It’s cheap, sort of. At least it’s something. I ate there in the end—nothing fancy, but warm. Still, it cost more than I planned to spend. Probably won’t do that again soon.

I used to have another spot I’d go to after Bible study—somewhere that offered breakfast and a little peace. But I stopped going after a bad encounter. One morning, prayer wrapped up early and I arrived around 7:45. Not realizing they didn’t open until 8, I walked in through the door I’d always used. A staff member confronted me right away, asked if I was a volunteer. When I said no, he shut me down hard—told me I wasn’t supposed to be there, said I used the wrong door. I didn’t even know there was another door.

That moment stuck with me. I know when I’m not wanted. And in this season of my life—without a home, without a fixed space—I often feel like I’m out of place everywhere I go. I don’t really fit in with the folks at the shelters or the drop-in centers, and honestly, I don’t want to. But it makes navigating the day more complicated. I have to be selective. I have to think through every stop, every interaction.

So here I am, at the main library after all, tapping this out. It’s not my first choice, but it’s dry. It’s warm. It’s open. And today, that’s enough.

Some days, survival looks like dodging raindrops and figuring out which door won’t get you kicked out. Other days, it’s about holding on to the small dignities—the ones that remind you you’re still human, still here, still trying.

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