There’s something oddly humbling about thunder. You can be mid-sentence, mid-bite of your overpriced salad, or mid-scroll of your phone, and then BOOM! Mother Nature drops the mic. It’s the kind of sound that doesn’t ask for your attention, it demands it. Lately, though, thunder hasn’t just been dramatic background noise. It’s been a harbinger. Of something stranger. Sadder. Deadlier.

In the past few weeks, there have been multiple deaths due to lightning strikes. Not one of those freak, once-in-a-decade stories. Several. And they’re starting to feel less like isolated events and more like a pattern from the universe or maybe the universe’s angry teenager phase.

A woman walking her dog. A man seeking shelter under a tree. Campers. Golfers. Hikers. Everyday people, doing everyday things. Zapped out of nowhere. It’s tragic. Eerie. And weirdly… unsettling.

Because yes, lightning happens. It’s been happening for billions of years. But when it starts to feel targeted and when the randomness of it starts clustering it starts to feel like something out of Greek mythology. Or a low-budget horror movie: Revenge of the Storm Gods.

As a psychologist (and a professional overthinker), I can’t help but go into metaphor overdrive. Lightning is raw, uncontrollable power. It doesn’t negotiate. It doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care if you have a deadline tomorrow or just got your hair done. It is both a literal and symbolic reminder that we are never fully in control. And we hate that.

Modern life tricks us into thinking we’ve tamed the world. We schedule, optimize, app-ify everything. But then lightning shows up like an unscheduled audit from the universe. And we remember: oh. Right. We are just highly evolved mammals with Wi-Fi.

And then there’s the emotional side. These stories of lightning deaths stir up our old friend existential dread. That uncomfortable whisper in our brains that says: “If lightning can just strike… why bother?” But I say why not bother better? Be deliberate. Take joy where you can. Laugh at the absurdity. Get inside when it starts rumbling, yes, but also appreciate the reminder that you’re still here to hear the thunder.

So, what do we do with all this lightning? Besides the practical (don’t stand under trees, people!), we sit with the discomfort. We acknowledge the sadness. We feel for the families. And we also marvel at the awesome, terrifying weird power of the natural world.

Because sometimes, lightning strikes. And when it does, it shakes us out of our delusions of permanence. It reminds us we’re fragile. That we matter. That we don’t matter. That we are alive right now.

And that’s a shock worth noticing.