the magic of a moody summer

and why I can't have it in california

There’s something soul-stirring about summer storms. They feel like a reprieve—unexpected and refreshing. Living most of the year in California, I’ve learned that summer storms don’t exist here. The days stretch on endlessly, with the hot sun baking everything in sight. The golden light lingers, casting sparkling, glittering days that soar and sing. Hours tick by, marked by the steady climb of temperatures from 90 to 110 degrees. The air shimmers, the asphalt melts beneath it. Summer in California is ripe tomatoes on the vine, bouquets of fresh basil, and shimmering pools of turquoise water, unrelenting light that dazzles and drives.

california summers

Clouds? They’re a rare sight. Rain? Not for months. A thunderstorm? Never. Summer days drag on, overstaying their welcome, often past their prime. At first, the endless blue skies and dry air are revelatory. Mornings are spent sipping coffee in the garden as the sun crests the horizon. Afternoons lounging in the pool, classic rock humming through the air, iced tea in hand. Evening walks in shorts and a T-shirt, casually greeting neighbors and their dogs.

But somewhere between July and August, it begins to feel like a performance—a monotony that settles in. The bright, sunny days feel contrived, forced. They become a one-note song, too upbeat, trying too hard, with little room for the other moods that summer could offer—the kind of moods that pair best with gusts of wind and streets washed by rain. I crave all the notes, not just the unyielding cheerfulness of a California summer.

This year, summer in New York reminded me that not all summers are relentlessly sunny. Here, the weather dances unpredictably—warm to cool to hot, with gray days that pull me inward.

The air can turn heavy, the skies silver and cloud-capped. On these days, I find myself waiting by the window, anticipating a storm to roll in. The sudden flash of lightning, the rumble of thunder, the fat raindrops landing with defiance of the season. These are the balm to the overstimulation of the relentless California summer. These moments, filled with the raw energy of a storm, offer a sacred reprieve—a chance to stay inside and sink into melancholy music, thick cream paper for journaling, or a dark novel.

new york summers

It’s funny, though, no matter where I am, a sunny day calls me outside. The warmth fills me with a sense of guilt if I don’t answer the call. Like somehow I’m wasting it if I don’t bask in its glory, if I don’t pack in all the “summer things”—bike rides, kayaking, long walks with the dogs, trips to the lake, hikes, drives, patio lunches. It’s all beautiful, but it’s also relentless. It never stops calling, and eventually, you realize it’s asking too much.

There’s a quiet magic in stormy summer days—a raw, untamed beauty that stirs something deep within.

They are the kind of days that invite reflection, slow down the pace, and let you breathe without the pressure of chasing the sun. They hold space for all the parts of you, not just the light fizzy parts. They’re a heavy nod to your dark, your melancholy, your somber. These storms aren’t interruptions; they’re invitations to witness nature, and yourself, at its most alive. To behold the quiet parts that are still there, but tucked away. There’s romance in the way the world quiets before a downpour, the way the clouds gather in secret conversations, the way the rain splashes the earth with life. A summer storm is a fleeting, precious thing—an invitation to find beauty in the unexpected, to revel in the fullness of the season, not just the sun, but the storm as well.