When I was a little kid, I was frightened to death of thunderstorms. Whenever gray clouds rolled over my house and that electrical tension slowly moved into my neighborhood, exciting dogs and bugs, I’d freak out. I’d have to run down to the basement and stay there until the storm passed and the thunder stopped. The rest of my family would pay no attention, continue watching television or cleaning the house, but I had to sit on the stone floor of our unfinished basement, waiting out the terror that rained from the atmosphere above me.

It was probably because I received constant warnings against weather. We lived in St. Louis, on the far edge of Tornado Alley, and we did tornado drills at school where we’d run out of the classroom into the darkened hallways and put our heads between our legs until the danger passed. When a storm showed up in the city, the television would run their stock “flood and thunder” advice: Get to the lowest part of the house, stay away from trees and open areas. The front room of my house had large glass windows, too– I conjured visions of the winds imploding them inwards, shards of glass whinging their way across my living room and embedding themselves in our wall, the paintings hung there, my mother’s couch.

As a fear, however, it was irrational. I remember going camping at one point with my family. We had one of those old VW popup vans, and when we stayed somewhere, we put the van up for the night and all slept inside of it, my parents on one side, my brother, sister, and I on the other. One night, a storm moved over the campsite, and the wind and rain grew to a beating, pounding on all side of the van while lightning flashed and thunder shook our popped-up VW. We were never in any real danger, it was just a passing summer storm, but despite my parents’ attempts to calm me, I cried and howled like a banshee until it passed. I was gripped with a phobia of this thrashing, beating monster, the storm that was so much bigger than I was, that threatened me at every turn.

It got worse. I’d run to the basement at the first drop of rain, and I’d stay down there until the storm had passed. I knew it was wrong, but whenever thunder cracked across the sky or even a flash of fall lightning lit up a corner of my eye, my stomach turned and the back of my neck tensed. This was no way to live, in constant fear of something uncontrollable. I had to do something.

So I decided to face it. I was home alone one day when I heard droplets of rain begin to fall on our skylight window. Calmly, I turned off the TV, went out to the garage, and opened the door. The rain was falling heavily on the driveway, little torrents of rainwater pushing fallen leaves around violently. A crack of lighting lit up the garage, and seconds later a peal of thunder split the sky. I had learned at school that you could decipher how far away lightning had struck by timing the thunder. This was close. I paused, standing in my parents’ garage, just barely visibly wavering between the timidity of youth and the resolve of maturity.

I stood and regarded the rain. The thunder cracked, and still I stood.

There was a lawn chair leaned against the garage wall. I grabbed it and stepped out into the pouring rain. Halfway up my driveway, I unfolded it and sat down. The rain and thunder fell around me in torrents, my clothes quickly soaked with rainwater. I sat, saw white lightning break its way across the sky and heard the resounding drums that followed it. I sat, and enjoyed the storm.