After The Storm

Every time I step onto the road, a storm begins in my head. Not the one from the sky—that comes later, if it comes at all. The first one rises from inside me. From my legs. From their wrong rhythm. From a slowness that never learned to hide.

It is the storm of my complexes.

It starts before the traffic light. Before the first car. Before anyone’s impatience. It starts the moment I realize I will be visible again.

"You again.”

“I show up when you go outside.”

“I didn’t invite you.”

“You didn’t invite the storm either.”

Dark clouds gather on the horizon, heavy enough to break trees. I already know what’s coming. The storm outside only permits the one inside—the city braces for rain.

I brace myself.

The rain arrives suddenly—real city rain, without poetry. The wind hits at an angle, pushing me back, reminding me that even when I stand still, I am never fully stable. The pavement is wet. Slippery. Honest to the point of cruelty. Every step is a decision. Every step is a possible fall.

“Hurry up.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You don’t want it badly enough.”

I know that voice. It never shouts. It sounds reasonable. Like authority. Like a teacher who doesn’t wait. Like a doctor who doesn’t explain. Like every person who has ever looked at my legs and quietly decided something was wrong with them.

Rain seeps into my shoes. My feet grow heavy, as if the asphalt is tying me to itself. Don’t slip. Don’t hesitate. Don’t make a scene.

“The worst thing is falling in front of people.”

“Why?”

“Because then you stop being a person. You become a problem.

I grab the metal railing. Cold. Wet. My hands are shaking. I don’t know if it’s the cold or the anger I’ve spent years thinning out so it wouldn’t spill. Thunder cracks somewhere far away.

For a second, it sounds like it’s coming from me.

People stand under the bus shelter. Dry. Safe. They are watching the weather, not me.

Still, the reflex kicks in.

Make yourself smaller. Don't get in the way. Shrink.

And that’s when something small happens. Not a breakdown. Not courage. Exhaustion. Not in my legs—deeper. Exhaustion from starting every exit from a place of guilt. From fighting my body before the world even gets a chance.

“Not now", the voice says.

“Now,” I answer, calmly, for the first time. Right now.

I stand in the rain. Wet. Unsteady. I don’t soften it. I don’t fix my posture. I don’t apologize to anyone’s gaze. The storm lashes at me.

For the first time, I don’t abandon myself to survive.

***

The rain weakens. Drop by drop. The wind quits first. It always does. What remains is heavy air and the smell of mud. Hospitals smell like this. Childhood spent waiting smells like this.

I stand still. Waiting for instructions. They don’t come. I’ve lived my whole life by internal commands: be careful, fix it, explain. Now—silence.

I take a step. And another. Slow. Not brave. Testing. My body responds. Awkwardly. But it responds.

“Don’t relax.”

“You’re visible,” the voice spoke silently.

“I am,” I answer. And I’m still here.”

They aren’t enemies, these voices. They were protection once. They are obsolete now. I stop in front of a shop window. The glass is wet, warping my reflection. I lean forward slightly—like someone who has spent a lifetime walking against the wind.

“Look at yourself.”

“I am.”

“Nothing’s changed.”

“You’re wrong.”

The break doesn’t arrive with drama. It comes as a clean thought. I didn’t hate my legs because they betrayed me. I hated them because they taught me limits the world refuses to acknowledge. In a world obsessed with speed, pain is only respected if it’s temporary.

Mine never was.

***

There were times when walking wasn’t the problem. Standing up was. When I was alone, it was easy. Alone, I knew the sequence. Alone, I wasn’t an event. But the moment someone new was present—someone seeing me for the first time—my body stiffened like before an exam I hadn’t studied for.

I’m sitting. An ordinary chair. A café. A living room. Somewhere irrelevant. Conversation flows. Laughter. And inside me: Not yet. Wait for someone else to stand. Wait for the right moment.

Because standing is never just standing. It’s exposure.

If you stand now, they’ll watch. If you stand later, it’ll be obvious. If you stand at all—they’ll know.

I laugh at a joke I didn’t hear. I nod. Beside me, the complex sits comfortably. It has patience.

“You don’t have to stand up... yet.”

“I do.”

“Not now.”

“I have to at some point.”

A first meeting. Everyone stands up—casually. Everyone except me. A second passes. Too long. My hands touch the table. My shoulders move before my legs. My body tries to escape before it realizes it can’t. I’m late. Again.

I see the look. Brief. Unintentional. Enough.

“There,” the complex whispers. “Now they know.”

Not pain. Not pity. Being noticed. Later, alone, the voice returns.

“You saw how they looked at you. You could’ve done it better.”

For years, I thought I was afraid of people. I wasn’t. I was scared of myself—reflected. That’s why I stayed seated too long, why I postponed standing up, why I made my body smaller until it vanished.

***

“Without me, you’re nobody.”

“Without you, I’m someone.”

I don’t love my legs. Not yet. But I no longer hate them. That cut is deeper than any explanation.

I stop at the edge of the road. The storm is already there.

“Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“They aren’t waiting. They’re passing.”

The road is ordinary. Two lanes. The white lines look farther than they are. Green isn’t permission. It’s pressure. The first step is late. Always. Eyes behind windshields.

“They’re looking at your legs.”

“Let them.”

I move. One step. And another. Halfway across, my body trembles.

“Now’s the moment.”

.

“For what?”

“To fall.”

“We’re skipping that chapter.”

Someone honks. Short. Sharp. And something inside me doesn’t break. It gets tired. I can’t cross roads like I’m committing a crime anymore. I reach the other side. No relief. Just staying.

***

I was ten years old when I realized my legs were not private. The school was across the street. The children ran. I stood a second too long. The teacher said my name in that tone—the one that means problem.

I moved late. A car screeched. Someone laughed. Someone pulled me. I didn’t feel pain then. The pain came later—when I understood I had stopped the world. That day, I learned my first rule: If you’re already late, apologize in advance.

***

I return to the present. The girl stands beside me. Not ahead. Not behind. “It was never your job to speed the world up,” I tell her.

I look at the road again. I don't look for the perfect moment. There isn’t one. I look for the moment; I don’t abandon myself. I go. I stop, intentionally, in the middle of the road.

I feel the asphalt beneath my feet. Real. Solid.

I do this for her.

For every year, I treated my legs as an obstacle rather than as proof.

I reach the other side. Not because I defeated the storm. But because I stopped fighting the place I live in. If every road still starts a storm in my head—fine.

Now I know.

Storms pass.

Legs remain.

And I don’t abandon them when the world honks.