EVERYWHERE I GO, IT RAINS ON ME.

November 23, 2006

I wrote “Everywhere I Go, It Rains on Me” on November 23, 2006, and I can still feel the weight of that day when I read it.

That post wasn’t meant to be clever. I didn’t have the bandwidth to be witty. I was soaked, cold, and barely hanging on. We'd been running nonstop calls—nothing spectacular, just that relentless drumbeat of low-priority emergencies that still take every ounce of your energy. The weather was trash, morale was worse, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten a real meal or felt dry.

What made that day hit differently wasn’t the calls—it was the sense that I was disappearing. Just another uniform in the rain, another faceless medic dragging a stair chair up broken apartment steps while people peered through curtains and forgot about me the second I left.

The rain wasn’t just literal. It was metaphorical, too—and I knew it, even if I didn’t spell it out. Everything felt like it was piling up: the calls, the hours, the system that kept asking for more without giving anything back. It rained on me because that's what it did—on all of us. And no matter how hard we tried to stay dry, the job soaked through eventually.

I didn’t have a deep point when I wrote that post. I wasn’t trying to make a statement. I just needed someone—anyone—to know that I was out there, soaked to the bone, still doing the damn job even though it felt like no one noticed.

Sometimes, the blog wasn’t about storytelling. Sometimes, it was just proof of life.