When the Rain Stopped: One Woman’s Journey, and What It Means for Us All

Read Halima’s Story Here

I read a story recently that I can’t shake. It wasn’t dramatic in the way we’re used to hearing about disasters. There was no headline-grabbing moment, no viral video, no explosion of chaos. Instead, there was a woman named Halima, and a simple sentence she spoke: “Drought destroyed our lives.”

Those four words hit me in a way I didn’t expect. I’ve read and learned a lot about climate change—its science, its politics, its statistics—but this was different. It wasn’t about carbon levels or rising sea temperatures. It was about a life, well, many lives actually, altered completely by something slow, quiet, and devastating.

Halima is from Somalia, from the Lower Shabelle region, where she once lived a life that, while modest, was full of meaning. She and her family were livestock herders, people who depended on the rhythms of nature and the traditions of their ancestors to survive. Then, in 2011 and 2012, the rains didn’t come. The animals began to die. First a few, then all. There was no dramatic weather event to mark the shift, just a creeping absence that slowly hollowed out her world.

Eventually, she walked fifteen days under the scorching sun with her siblings to try and find safety. Two of them didn’t survive the journey. She now lives in Eastleigh, Nairobi, selling doughnuts to feed her children and support her elderly mother, who still lives in a displaced persons camp back in Somalia.

And yet, despite everything, what lingers with me most is not just the heartbreak—it’s the haunting familiarity. Because, as distant as her story might seem, it’s actually a mirror.

A mirror because I saw in her story the things I take for granted.

Like the quiet assumption that I’ll always have access to clean water when I turn on the tap. That the rain will come when it’s supposed to.

If It Can Happen to Halima…

I live a life that, by all appearances, feels secure. I have a roof over my head, clean water from the tap, predictable seasons (for now), and grocery stores filled with food. But reading Halima’s story made me realize that none of this is promised. None of it is truly permanent.

We like to think climate change is something happening “over there”—in far-off deserts or coastal villages we've never been to. However, droughts are becoming more common in places that once never worried about them. Wildfires now ravage areas once considered temperate. Floods overwhelm cities that never thought they needed dams, dykes and levees. Rising sea levels are threatening the homes of people who, like me, once thought themselves safe.

Halima’s story, while deeply personal and specific, is also a warning. It’s not meant to make us feel guilty for what we have. It’s meant to shake us awake to the reality that climate migration isn’t just a future crisis for someone else. It’s already happening. And if we don’t act now—with urgency, compassion, and strategy-any of us could find ourselves walking toward an uncertain future, leaving everything behind.

The Quiet Violence of Climate Change

What struck me most about Halima’s story was the silence of it all. There was no sudden war. No earthquake. Just a slow absence: of water, of livestock, of safety, of choice.

That silence is terrifying. It’s not the kind you notice right away. It builds slowly, unnoticed until it’s too late. That’s how climate change works. It's not just the violent storms, it’s the subtle shifts that unravel the delicate web of stability we’ve come to rely on.

It also reminded me that climate change doesn’t just destroy landscapes, it fractures lives. It separates families, erodes cultures, and forces people into roles they never chose. Halima didn’t want to be a migrant. She didn’t dream of selling doughnuts on the side of the road in a foreign city. She wanted to raise animals, live with her extended family, pass on the traditions she was raised with.

Could I Be a Climate Migrant One Day?

I kept asking myself this question. Could I ever be in Halima’s position?

At first, my instinct was to say no. I live in a country with infrastructure, support systems, and relative wealth. However, then I thought about the record-breaking heatwaves last summer, the floods that turned highways into rivers, and the fires that burned for weeks in Australia, Los Angeles, etc. I thought about how fragile even the most "developed" systems become under enough pressure. I thought about the fact that when Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, tens of thousands of Americans became displaced. Some never returned.

The truth is, we are all vulnerable.

And that realization isn’t meant to scare us into despair. It’s meant to wake us up. Because if climate change can make a migrant out of Halima, it can make one out of any of us. However, it also means that her story isn’t just a tragedy, it’s a guide. A call to action. A chance to learn from those already on the frontlines of this crisis.

What We Can Do—For Halima, For Ourselves

So, where does that leave us?

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed, but feeling isn’t enough. Action—real, tangible action—is what’s needed. Both for those like Halima who are already living the consequences, and for ourselves, to prevent becoming the next wave of climate migrants.

Here’s what I think we can do:

1. Listen—and Keep Listening

We have to start by truly listening to stories like Halima’s. Not just hearing them once and moving on, but letting them sit with us. Letting them inform how we see the world. Letting them push us past sympathy and into empathy.

Stories are powerful because they humanize statistics. Halima is not a number. She is a mother, a survivor, a provider. Her story makes climate change real in a way that charts and graphs never could.

2. Share Their Stories

We need to talk about climate migration in our conversations. In our classrooms. Around our dinner tables. We need to write about it, post about it, and reflect on it. The more these stories are told, the less invisible these people become. Visibility is the first step toward justice.

3. Demand Policy Change

Right now, as I have learned in one of my classes, climate migrants aren’t officially recognized as refugees under international law. That means they don’t get the legal protections they desperately need. This has to change.

We can advocate for governments and global institutions to expand the definition of “refugee” to include those displaced by environmental disasters. We can support organizations working on the ground to provide aid, shelter, and support. And we can vote for leaders who prioritize climate action and climate justice, not just emissions targets, but real support for those already affected.

4. Rethink Our Impact

This one’s hard, but necessary. We all contribute to climate change, some more than others. It's time to take a long, honest look at our consumption, our energy use, our diets, and our travel habits. I’m not perfect at this, and I won’t pretend to be but since last year, I have really been trying to make minor and realistic changes (the “realistic” part is important) that can last me a lifetime.

What we do individually won’t solve the crisis alone, but it does create a ripple effect and when paired with systemic change, it becomes part of a larger movement.

5. Invest in Hope

Finally, we need to believe that change is possible. Stories like Halima’s don’t have to be the norm. That we can build a future where people aren’t forced to flee their homes because of drought or rising seas. A future where resilience isn’t about surviving tragedy, but about preventing it in the first place.

Hope isn’t naive, it’s necessary. It’s what fuels action. It’s what keeps people like Halima going, day after day, despite all she’s lost.

And it’s what can keep us going, too.

What Halima Taught Me

In the end, Halima’s story didn’t just make me feel sad—it made me feel connected. To her. To this planet. To my vulnerability and to the power we still have, if we choose to use it.

I imagine her every morning, rising before the sun to make doughnuts. I imagine her checking on her kids. I imagine her grief, her quiet strength, her exhaustion. And I realize: she’s doing all of that with almost nothing.

The least I can do, with all that I have, is not look away.

Halima's story isn’t a tragedy meant to make us feel sorry. It’s a mirror meant to make us see.

We are not as separate from her as we might think.

And maybe, just maybe, if we act now, we can build a future where no one has to say, “Drought destroyed our lives.”

Maybe we can build a world where the only migrations we make are the ones we choose. Where people like Halima are celebrated for their strength, not forgotten for their suffering. Where climate action isn’t just about numbers and charts, but about people, real people, whose lives hang in the balance.

It starts with listening and it continues with care, with courage, and with the belief that we are still capable of building something better.

So, let’s keep listening. Let’s keep caring. And most importantly, let’s keep moving, before the silence reaches our own doorsteps.

Thank you, and I will see you next week.