Can You Stand The Rain?

Mya

Mya Taufua’s alarm went off at 4:45am.

Not because she enjoyed mornings.

Not because she was disciplined beyond human understanding.

But because her family depended on her moving before the sun did.

The room was still dark when she sat up slowly, silence wrapping around the tiny house like a fragile thing. For a moment she stayed there, elbows on her knees, staring at the glow of her cracked phone screen while exhaustion clawed at the edges of her body.

Four hours of sleep.

Again.

She rubbed her eyes hard, then whispered softly into the darkness:

“Thank you for today, Lord.”

Not because today was easy already. But because gratitude had become survival.

The floor creaked beneath her feet as she stood carefully, trying not to wake her younger sisters sleeping in the next room. The house smelled faintly of laundry powder and last night’s curry. Somewhere down the hallway a fan rattled loudly against loose screws.

Mya tied her curls into a high ponytail and stepped into the kitchen.

The sink was already full.

Of course it was.

School containers. Plates. Cups.

Her father not back from work just yet.

Her mother’s nursing shift didn’t finish until seven.

Which meant breakfast was hers. Like most things.

The fluorescent kitchen light flickered overhead while she moved automatically through routine:

Rice into the cooker.

Eggs onto the pan.

Lunches packed.

Toast burning slightly because she forgot it existed.

The youngest, Noah, wandered in first rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“Mya…”

“You’re awake too early.”

“I had a nightmare.”

Her face softened instantly.

“C’mere.”

The six-year-old settled into her side while she flipped eggs one-handed.

“What was it about?”

“A shark.”

“In the house?”

He nodded seriously.

“That’s terrifying.”

“I know.”

She kissed the top of his head. “Good thing I’m tougher than sharks.”

Noah giggled sleepily against her shoulder.

That sound alone made the exhaustion worth it.

Most days.

Footsteps thundered down the hallway seconds later.

Then chaos exploded.

“Mya, where’s my uniform?”

“He took my charger!”

“I said I had training today!”

“Why are there no clean socks?!”

Mya closed her eyes briefly.

Then opened them with practiced patience.

“Inside voices before I meet Jesus early.”

Silence.

For approximately three seconds.

The Taufua household was loud in the way only big families could be. Loud with life. Loud with love. Loud with arguments over cereal and bathroom mirrors and stolen hoodies.

And somehow, in the middle of it all, Mya carried everyone.

At 22, she had become part sister, part parent, part provider.

Not because anyone asked her to.

But because responsibility attached itself, naturally, to eldest daughters.

Eldest daughters are held to a completely different standard.

Especially in Polynesian families.

Especially when love looked like sacrifice.

Her brother Isaiah stumbled into the kitchen half-dressed for school.

“You ironing my shirt?”

Mya stared at him.

“You have hands.”

“Yeah, but you do it better.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

He grinned. “Love you too.”

She pointed toward the laundry basket. “Iron it yourself or wear wrinkles like consequences.”

The front door opened then.

Their father entered briefly, steel-cap boots soaked from rain outside. Big build. Tired eyes. High-vis jacket reflecting against the kitchen light.

“Mālō,” he greeted warmly.

Instantly, the younger kids swarmed him.

Mya watched quietly while her father hugged each child despite looking barely awake himself.

He noticed her standing by the stove.

“Daughter, did you sleep?”

“A little.”

His expression tightened slightly. “You’re doing too much again.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

Because somebody had to be fine. Her father stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You know we appreciate you, right?”

Emotion flickered across her face so quickly most people would miss it.

But not him. Not her father. “You don’t have to carry everything.”

Mya forced a smile. “Good thing I’m strong.”

—

By 8:12am, she was sprinting through Melbourne CBD with an iced coffee in one hand and her tote bag bouncing against her hip. Rain drizzled lightly across crowded city streets while commuters moved like impatient rivers around her. Mya checked her watch.

Late.

Again.

Perfect.

She finally shoved through the glass doors of Blackwood Developments slightly out of breath.

The receptionist smirked immediately.

“Three minutes.”

Mya pointed accusingly. “Trams are against me spiritually.”

“You say that every Monday.”

“Because every Monday they prove me right.”

The receptionist laughed while Mya hurried toward the elevators.

Most people underestimated her instantly.

Pretty smile.

Warm personality.

People assumed softness.

Then they watched her manage impossible workloads without breaking and realized too late she was built from reinforced steel.

By twenty-two, Mya had mastered the art of surviving exhaustion gracefully.

The elevator doors opened onto the executive floor.

Phones ringing.

Printers running.

People already stressed.

Her natural habitat.

“Mya!” someone called immediately. “The Henderson files?”

“On your desk.” she called back instantly.

“The client moved the meeting—”

“I know.” Mya was certain this place would fall apart if she ever left.

“We can’t find the contract for—”

“Top drawer, blue folder.”

She moved through the office like controlled lightning, solving problems before people finished creating them.

Admin assistant was the official title.

Unofficially?

She held the entire office together with caffeine and prayer.

Her boss, Vanessa, emerged from her office carrying two folders and visible panic.

“Please tell me you emailed the revised proposal.”

“Last night.”

“You’re lying.”

“Check your sent folder.”

Vanessa opened the email.

Then groaned dramatically.

“One day you’re going to quit and this company will collapse.”

Mya smiled while hanging her bag beneath the desk.

“Then pay me CEO money.”

“You want my job too?”

“No,” Mya said honestly. “I want sleep.”

That earned a genuine laugh.

But beneath the humour sat truth.

Because Mya was tired.

Not normal tired.

Bone-deep tired.

The kind carried by people who spent their entire lives making sure everyone else survived first.

Around lunchtime, she finally sat long enough to eat half a sandwich while updating schedules.

Her phone buzzed.

Group chat: FAMILY ❤️

Leilani:

Can you pick Noah up after school?

Isaiah:

Need money for camp tomorrow

Mum:

Love you daughter ❤️

Dad:

Proud of you always

Mya stared at the messages quietly.

Then smiled despite herself.

Heavy.

Her life was heavy.

But it was also full.

That mattered.

A notification interrupted her thoughts.

Banking app.

Her expression shifted immediately.

Mortgage was due.

Gym registration payment.

Youth camp fundraiser still incomplete.

Savings account basically zilch despite years of trying.

Independence felt close enough to taste sometimes.

Then life reached into her pocket again.

She locked the phone quickly.

“Everything okay?” Vanessa asked from nearby.

“Yeah.”

Lie.

But a polished one.

—

By 6:30pm, Mya stood inside Iron Sanctuary Gym adjusting wrist straps while bass-heavy music rattled through the walls.

Completely different world.

Completely different version of her.

Gone were the office clothes and soft curls.

Now:

Black activewear.

Hair braided tightly back.

Strong legs.

Defined shoulders.

Focused eyes.

People noticed her when she walked through the gym.

Not just because she was beautiful. Because she carried herself like someone who refused to break.

“Alright!” she clapped loudly. “If you came here to suffer, congratulations—you’re in the right class.”

Groans filled the room.

Mya grinned.

“I love this energy already.”

Fitness had started as survival.

Then healing.

Then purpose.

Now it became one of the few places she felt fully alive.

“Circuit tonight,” she announced. “No excuses, no fake injuries, and if anybody quits early, I’ll expose your Spotify playlists publicly.”

“That’s emotional abuse,” one client complained.

“Correct. Grab dumbbells.”

Laughter spread through the class.

And suddenly Mya was glowing.

That was the thing about her.

She poured life into rooms.

Not fake positivity.

Not performative happiness.

Real warmth.

The kind exhausted people gravitated toward naturally.

Midway through class, sweat glistened across her skin while she corrected someone’s deadlift form.

“Core tight,” she instructed gently. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Funny how she could say that to others so easily.

“God gives strength and caffeine fills the gaps.”

The class laughed again.

But her body ached tonight.

Legs sore.

Head pounding slightly.

Still running on too little sleep.

Still carrying too much.

She pushed through anyway.

Because stopping had never really been an option.

—

Friday nights belonged to church.

Not out of obligation. Out of love.

The youth hall buzzed with energy while teenagers filled tables with food, laughter, and absolute chaos.

Mya moved between them carrying pizza boxes.

“No running!”

Immediately, two boys stopped sprinting indoors.

Then resumed walking aggressively.

Close enough.

“You guys finish setting up worship?”

“Almost!”

“Almost means no.”

“It means spiritually yes.”

Mya laughed despite herself.

Youth ministry was a different ball game. Especially after a full week of work.

Teenagers were exhausting.

But these kids mattered to her deeply.

Some came from broken homes.

Some carried anger too heavy for their age.

Some just needed somewhere safe to exist.

Mya understood that responsibility instinctively.

One of the younger girls approached nervously.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

The girl hesitated. “How do you… stay happy all the time?”

The question caught her off guard.

Mya leaned against the table carefully.

“I’m not happy all the time.”

“You seem like it.”

She smiled softly.

“That’s because joy and happiness aren’t the same thing.”

The girl frowned slightly.

“There are days I’m exhausted,” Mya admitted. “Days I cry. Days I feel overwhelmed.”

“Really?”

“Oh absolutely.”

That earned a tiny smile.

Mya continued gently:

“But Jesus gives me peace even when life feels heavy.”

The girl nodded slowly.

“And honestly?” Mya added with a small laugh. “Sometimes I just survive one hour at a time.”

That honesty mattered more than pretending perfection.

Across the hall, worship music started softly.

Teenagers gathered closer.

Voices rising together.

Mya stood quietly at the back watching them sing.

Hands lifted.

Eyes closed.

Hope alive in the room.

Emotion tightened unexpectedly in her chest.

Because this—

this right here—

was why she kept going.

Not money.

Not recognition.

People.

Purpose.

Faith.

Family.

Love.

Her phone buzzed again.

Another bill notification.

Another reminder of reality waiting outside these walls.

Mya silenced it without checking.

Then lifted her own hands slowly during worship.

Not because life was easy.

But because she believed God still stood inside difficult things too.