Mabel had checked the weather every day of her adult life.
Not casually. Faithfully. With intent.
She checked it first thing in the morning, again after breakfast, once more before leaving the house, and—if plans were involved—hour by hour. She knew the symbols. The percentages. The difference between "chance" and "likely." And could explain how partly cloudy and partly sunny were cousins.
Her friends called her the forecaster.
They said it kindly. Mostly.
Mabel had some perfect days because of it. Picnics that landed under blue skies. Drives taken just ahead of storms. Weddings where the rain politely waited until everyone was inside.
But there were other days too.
Days that never happened.
A beach walk canceled on Tuesday because rain was predicted for Saturday.
A backyard birthday moved indoors "just in case."
A hike postponed so many times it quietly disappeared.
Sometimes the rain never came.
Mabel told herself this was wisdom. Planning. Experience.
Still, she noticed something odd over the years:
the future seemed to take up more and more space, while the present got smaller.
Then one morning, a friend called. It was her college roommate. They had plans to meet for lunch the next day—something they'd been talking about for months, after more than thirty years apart. Mabel felt the old joy rise as they talked, until her friend hesitated and said, "I think I need to cancel. I saw the weather forecast." They made plans for another day, but when the call ended, the weight of all the days that had been postponed before settled quietly on Mabel's shoulders.
The next morning—late in the season, the light already softer—Mabel reached for her phone out of habit.
Then she stopped.
Not dramatically. Not bravely.
She just didn't feel like knowing the weather.
She made coffee. She opened a window. The air smelled undecided.
Mabel went anyway.
She walked to the park without an umbrella. Sat on a bench she usually avoided because the forecast had once been wrong about it. Watched children invent games without checking anything at all.
It sprinkled. Briefly.
She laughed—actually laughed—at the sky, like it was an old friend who had finally told the truth.
The day wasn't perfect.
But it was hers. And that made it priceless.
That evening, her phone buzzed with messages.
Another friend texted, "Did you see the weather tomorrow? Looks like rain. We should probably cancel."
Mabel typed back something new.
Let's wait and see.
She set the phone down and let tomorrow arrive on its own.
🧠 Mental Gym #5: Ignore The Forecast
A small practice in letting the day happen
Try this once this week: Make one plan without checking the forecast--weather, calendar, or algorithm.
Go anyway.
Notice what you gain when certainty stays home.
The story was inspired by the article The psychology of weather forecasts at MetMatters (Royal Meteorological Society)
Until next Sunday.
Some days don't want predicting.
— Mike ☕️
P.S. If this gave you a tiny exhale, please consider forwarding it to one person.