A “Rainy” Walk with Alex
One Wednesday afternoon, I picked up Alex, a six-year-old I was babysitting, from school. As usual, he ran toward me with excitement, already talking about going to the playground with his bike. Going to the playground after school had become our little Wednesday habit.
Just as we unlocked our bikes, the rain suddenly started pouring down.
“I want to go to the playground!” Alex said.
I looked at the dark sky and gently explained that it wasn’t possible that day. Since we both had bikes, we couldn’t take the bus and instead had to walk the long, muddy path to the tram station.
Alex did not like that change of plans.
After a few minutes he stopped walking.
“I don’t want to walk! I’m tired!” he cried.
He stood in the middle of the path, holding his bike, crying and refusing to move.
Changes of plans were usually very difficult for Alex. He liked to know the plan clearly from the beginning, and when something unexpected happened he often became overwhelmed. In similar situations he sometimes ran away, and I had to chase after him.
Meanwhile, I could feel my own frustration rising. The rain was heavy, the path muddy, and I was carrying my own bike and backpack.
“Alex, calm down,” I heard myself say.
As soon as the words came out, I noticed something: I wasn’t really helping him calm down. I was wishing for the situation to calm down—for both of us. I was also trying to push away my own frustration.
My explanations were not helping. My patience was running thin.
I paused and noticed how tense I felt. If I continued from that place, the situation would probably escalate.
At that moment, I remembered the RAIN practice.
I took a breath and decided to first acknowledge what was happening inside me before trying to guide Alex through the same process.
When we finally reached the tram station, I knelt down next to him.
“I see you’re not feeling good because we couldn’t go to the playground,” I said softly. “What are you feeling right now?”
“I’m angry!” he shouted.
“I see that,” I replied. “It’s okay to feel angry. You really wanted to play. It’s hard when something we expect—like our usual playground time—doesn’t happen.”
He looked at me, still breathing heavily.
“Can you feel where the anger is in your body?” I asked.
He looked confused.
I pointed gently. “Maybe in your stomach? Your chest? Your head?”
He paused for a moment.
“My throat,” he said quietly.
Just then the tram arrived, so we didn’t have time to finish the RAIN practice. But something had already shifted. Alex looked tired, yet calmer and less overwhelmed.
Before we got on the tram, I looked at him and said, “I’m proud of you for recognizing your anger today.”
He nodded quietly as we continued our way home.



