The morning skies over Tokyo were clear when I boarded the train. But by the time I stepped out, they had turned grey.

The rain began softly. I hesitated. I had no umbrella, and the path ahead to Meiji Shrine held no cover. Perhaps I should turn back and stay dry? If I got wet it would ruin my plans for the day. But I didn’t know when I’d be back this way again – so I stepped into it.

By the time I passed beneath the wooden gate, it was pouring. Water blurred my vision, turning the world into a dream. I reached the main hall, clapped twice, pressed my palms together and gave thanks – thanks for being there, far from home, soaked in the rain.

For the first twenty-something years of my life, travel was a distant luxury I couldn’t afford. I grew up in Singapore, my world mapped within familiar streets and repetitive schedules. I longed to see something different.

When I finally began to travel, I treated each trip like a precious jewel: I scripted every hour and every step, no room for weather or whimsy. I thought certainty was the way to keep disappointment at bay.

But plans dissolve. Trains run late. Storms arrive uninvited. Buddhist nun Pema Chödrön calls this “groundlessness” – the basic fact that nothing is solid or guaranteed beneath our feet. Change is the only constant, and we add suffering onto it when we resist change. So I learned to listen to the shifting roads and hold my itinerary loosely; not just to sightsee, but to explore.

On a Japanese mountainside, an elderly man pressed a warm cup of tea into my hands, while the rain drummed on the roof. In the forests of Thailand, an unexpected road trip to a temple, where a monk’s relic lay, half bone and half crystal. In the English countryside, where I spent a sleepless night in an eerie room, as portraits of the dead gazed at me beside a view to the cemetery.

These moments were never on the schedule.

I’d be lying if I said I was cured of control. I still prefer clear skies, trains that come on time, and the kind of surprises I already like. There are storms I wouldn’t risk, and days I wish I’d planned better. But groundlessness has taught me there’s no escaping uncertainty. I’ve learnt – am still learning – to walk in the rain.

That morning in Tokyo, I left the shrine and went for breakfast, my clothes clinging to me, my hair a mess, my socks squishing in my shoes. The waitress gave me a strange smile. I smiled back. Outside, the rain kept falling.