What the rain knew

There was a shade of shadow that covered us, a pause in the atmosphere, leaving a light breeze that traveled through the trees, and through my little fale. And then all at once, my tin roof was thudding with raindrops. “Yay!” The kids started chanting while running outside to dance in the rain. I followed along. Air fills my lungs, as I take in the smell of rain. My head tilted back, exposing my face to the crash of drops. My skin merged with the message the rain traveled to bring. Pause, breathe, feel. As I let the message sink in, a sense of freedom awakened me. As a young girl growing up in the islands of Samoa, my childhood was lush with nature. The sounds of roosters singing their alarm in the early mornings. The salty breeze rushed over from the same direction as the beach nearby. Having a bunch of bananas hanging from the ceiling of our fale. The soft earth beneath my feet. Sucking coffee beans from my aunt's coffee tree next to our fale. Weaving flax to make bags and plates to serve food. Climbing trees. I often find these memories. Nature raised me as much as people did, but the safety I felt in nature did not always match my environment. Nature nurtured me; it listened to me without having to speak a word, felt the weight of my tears as they landed on soil. Rain washing over me to feel with me without punishment. 

There was no voice, no sound, but something whispered inside me, a knowing that something has shifted with the intense pull that is about to come crashing down violently. Suddenly alarming voices projected across two opposite sides of the village. My two aunties marched towards each other, one with ready-made fists while the other with open scissors, ready to attack. High pitch sirens ringing through my ears. I am not sure what happened after that, but soon after, one of my aunties was dragged away with a maroon stream down her slim frame. I stood there with blurred visions unsure of where to look for safety. Tucked away on one side of the room, laying on my flax mat as a bed, having already said goodbye to the day.

Whispered voices surrounded me. Hopefully, this dream is not scary. As I shifted trying to wake myself from this dream, I realised the voices were not from inside my head. It was very much surrounding my house. Warnings were shouted as I rushed out of the fale. My cousin shoved her way through bodies to reach me. She said “He is trying to burn your fale. He has already poured gasoline on the fale, threatening to light it.” My cousin wrapped her arms around me, trying to steady me as I broke into a waterfall of tears. My uncle then appeared and spoke, his voice was serious and stern, demanding my teenage boy cousin who was threatening everyone, to calm down and follow him. My uncle had the presence of authority, and everyone respected him. A chief. When my cousin was taken away, everyone slowly resumed their activities. I was too scared to sleep, unsure of what else might happen if I closed my eyes. These moments often came without warning. It is true the saying of “it takes a village to raise a child,” but sometimes the village forgets that children are watching, listening, breaking inside. 

I was raised collectively by my mum, aunties, and my older sister who became a second mother to me, but there were moments I often felt alone. When I felt something deeply, I was often shushed, silencing my voice. I was physically punished for speaking out, especially if it challenges cultural norms or religious beliefs. I remember disagreeing with going to church and being whipped across my bottom multiple times with the belt. “You’re not supposed to get drunk and attack people and then go to church.” I challenged. I learned that challenging limiting beliefs was especially dangerous. I learnt that love is not always gentle but sometimes can hurt, not just physically but emotionally. Obedience was praised; silence was safety. Love was offered but not always in a way I could understand or feel. There were rules I did not understand and expectations I could not meet. This made me feel dismissed, unseen, and emotionally disconnected. 

I learned to escape by vivid daydreaming. In the worlds I created, I could feel without fear, speak without consequences. The silence I experienced in real life turned into a roar in my mind, one that would grow louder with time. The ability to escape whenever I wanted became sacred, a strength. My dreams were not about wealth or material things. I dreamt about reclaiming what the world tried to take from me. My voice, my sense of safety, my ability to name what was wrong even when no one else would.  

Now as an adult studying human development and psychology, I am learning about attachment theory. This theory focuses on the early childhood experiences that form between a child and caregivers, which can impact their psychological development. I can now name the things I could not make sense of as a child. I did not have the name for it then, but I felt the uncomfortable tightness around my heart, the absence of consistent emotional safety, the confusion, the strange duality of being both loved and harmed by those I loved. Love and fear lived side by side. The people who fed me, clothed me, braided my hair, and held my hand, were also the ones whose voices made me flinch, whose silence made me question my worth. My early childhood was an unstable map for understanding love and connection. Naming the pain is just one step towards healing; it opens a doorway to seeing myself with compassion. Attachment theory is not just a concept; it is a mirror I did not know I needed. This is a journey. Mine.