People often ask me where my inspiration comes from—what sparks the stories I’ve written, the lyrics I’ve crafted, and even the projects I have yet to bring to life. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I’ve come to believe that inspiration doesn’t simply strike out of nowhere. It’s a continuous, circulating process—just like the earth’s water cycle.

In the water cycle, water evaporates, forms clouds, rains down, and flows back into oceans and lakes, only to begin again. Inspiration works the same way. It evaporates from one source—a song, a piece of art, a conversation, a life event—forms into ideas and dreams in our minds, and eventually rains down as stories, music, art, or even the gentle spark that lights someone else’s creative fire. What I create might inspire someone else, just as I’ve been inspired by the art and creativity that came before me. Music inspired by art. Art inspired by music. Books inspired by life. And life, beautifully, is inspired by it all—round and round, just like the water cycle.

But here’s something I’ve learned through my own journey: quiet spaces are the fertile ground where inspiration condenses. Without them, ideas can evaporate before they ever take shape. When I was married, my life was filled with constant chatter. From the moment I woke up, the conversations began—often before I’d even reached for my first (desperately needed) cup of coffee. My husband would immediately start telling me his incredibly detailed dreams. At the time, I often felt a frustrated longing for silence. I craved a few quiet moments to recall my own dreams, to let my thoughts drift, to write.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder what might have happened if I’d leaned into those noisy mornings instead of wishing them away. How many stories could I have captured from his dreams if I’d simply rolled with it, taken notes, and started writing sooner? But hindsight is its own teacher. Sometimes we miss the rain because we were too busy wishing for the sun.

Still, I know that my love for stories and music was seeded long before that season of life. It began in childhood, wrapped safely in my dad’s arms as he read to me and my brothers. Those moments didn’t just teach me to love stories—they built the foundation of who I am as a writer and as a dreamer. I loved reading so much that I’d sneak books under the covers and, when that wasn’t enough, I’d press myself up against my bedroom window to catch the faint glow of the streetlight outside so I could keep reading after “lights out.”

There was even the time I accidentally set my robe on fire by using it to shield the light from a lamp I wasn’t supposed to have on. (Don’t worry—I put it out quickly, but the robe was beyond saving.) That’s how fiercely I clung to the stories that filled me up.

Inspiration, like the water cycle, is something we can’t fully control—but we can choose to be present when it rains. We can soak it in when it comes, let it collect in the reservoirs of our hearts and minds, and then let it flow back out of us in the form of our own creations. And when we do, that water—our stories, our songs, our art—evaporates again, carried by others into their own skies of imagination.

So, if you’re seeking inspiration, stay curious. Stay open. Let your mind wander. Feed your dreams. Whether it comes from music, art, life, or even the noisy chatter of a loved one’s dream—it’s all part of the same beautiful cycle.

Let it rain.