My Love Affair with the Rain in Da Nang: A Mindful Reflection

There are few sounds in the world as universally familiar as the sound of rain. But in Da Nang, Vietnam, rain is a season, a mood, and a meditation. It arrives not just with drops but with rhythm, with texture, with presence. And over time, I’ve come to love it deeply.

I didn’t grow up with rain. I’m from Southern California, where rain is a rare, almost mythological visitor. In Los Angeles, a light drizzle makes headlines, and a thunderstorm can send people running for cover as if the sky had betrayed them. So, when I moved to Da Nang and experienced the monsoon rains for the first time, it was a kind of culture shock, but the best kind. Not a jarring disruption, but an invitation.

Rain here has weight. It forces you to stop, or at least slow down. Traffic thins, sidewalks clear, conversations shift indoors. And if you let it, the rain creates space. Space to listen. Space to reflect. Space to feel something other than momentum.

In mindfulness training, we often use the breath as an anchor; a way to root ourselves in the present. But for me, in Da Nang, rain has become another anchor. It's not an interruption. It's a teacher. When the clouds open, and the city shifts into this quieter, more reflective pace, I find that I do, too. The rain pulls me out of my to-do list. Out of my head. Into the now. The texture of water hitting rooftops, the distant hum of engines on wet roads, the way puddles form along the sidewalk; these are not distractions. They are sensory cues to be here.

Mindfulness is about being awake to what is happening. The rain makes that easier. It wakes up my senses. And when you become more sensitive to your surroundings, you also become more sensitive to your own internal weather; your thoughts, your mood, your assumptions.

Rain doesn’t just wet the streets; it stirs the soul. It brings up memories. It opens the archive of emotions you didn’t even know you were carrying. There’s a kind of nostalgia that comes with rain. In Greek, nostalgia translates roughly to "the pain from an old wound." Rain amplifies this. Not in a sad way, in a human way. It reminds us we’ve lived. We’ve lost. We’ve loved. And we can feel all of it at once.

Some of my deepest thinking happens during these rains. I remember old friends. I think of loved ones far away. I reflect on mistakes. I remember laughter. The rain doesn’t judge. It holds the space.

Other times, the rain invites play. You see kids running through puddles, lovers sharing one umbrella too small, friends huddled around coffee under a tin roof, laughing at the absurdity of trying to stay dry in a downpour. Rain reminds us of our shared humanity. No matter your status, language, job title, or philosophy, when the rain comes, we all get wet. And in that, there is something beautifully egalitarian. Something deeply spiritual.

Even driving in the rain becomes a mindful act. You can't rush it. You have to pay attention. You have to feel the road differently. You notice things; the way water collects in low spots, the slight blur of lights through your windshield, the silence that descends on even the busiest intersections.

That, to me, is mindfulness. Not an escape from the moment. A deep dive into it.

Last weekend, I found myself at the Son Tra Peninsula, and as the rain lightly fell around me, I built a stack of stones by the shoreline. No reason. Just felt right. One rock on top of another, each placed slowly, patiently. Not to create a monument, but to mark a moment. That moment was mine.

It was an exercise in attention. A way to let the rain dictate my tempo. And in that stillness, I felt full. Alive. Aligned.

So often, especially in entrepreneurship and modern work culture, we chase the sun. The clarity, the sparkle, the motivation. But what if the rain has something to teach us, too? It invites you to pause, to reconnect with the slow rhythm of your own thoughts. It lets you feel instead of fix. To be instead of do. And sometimes, that is the most productive thing we can do.

Mindfulness is not a luxury. It’s a necessity. And sometimes, all it takes to practice is to open a window and listen. To smell the petrichor. To feel the coolness of water on your skin. To stop resisting the wetness, the mess, the beauty of what is.

If you ever come to Da Nang, don’t avoid the rainy season. Embrace it. Let it wash over you. Let it wake you up.

You might just fall in love with the rain, too.