Find the Flow

I. Still Waters Lie

They said the river was calm—

that peace was found in stillness.

But they forgot the weight of silence,

how it gathers at your ankles

like cold chains in the dark.

Stillness isn't always peace—

sometimes it's pressure.

Sometimes, it's the scream you never let out

swirling beneath the surface.

I stood at the edge for years,

toes curled at the bank,

watching others dive in,

laughing, swimming, drifting,

while I clung to certainty

like it was a raft—

even as it rotted beneath me.

II. The Ripple Begins

The first step was not brave.

It was clumsy.

My foot slipped on moss

and my fears rushed to the surface—

What if I sink?

What if I’m seen?

What if I’m swept away

by something I cannot name?

But the water was honest.

Cold, yes—truth usually is.

It didn’t lie like the voices in my head did.

It didn't flatter.

It didn’t care about my resume,

or how many people I disappointed.

It just moved.

So I moved too.

III. Currents Within

Inside me, a tide was turning.

Years of held breath,

of biting my tongue,

of shrinking to fit the shape

of someone else’s idea of safety—

all of it came rushing out

in one long exhale

as I stepped deeper.

The current pulled,

and it scared me,

because I didn’t know

if I was letting go or giving up.

Turns out, they are sisters—

and you don’t meet freedom

until you walk both of them

to the end of the shoreline.

IV. The Language of Water

The river taught me in whispers.

Not in shouts,

not in books.

In the rhythm of surrender.

In the way the sun slants across the surface

and never asks the water to shine differently.

It never once said,

“Be more like the ocean,”

or “You should sparkle like the sea.”

It just let the river be a river.

And so, I began to let me be me.

Not the polished version.

Not the projected one.

The raw. The restless. The real.

All current. No apology.

V. When Rocks Don't Move

Some days, I hit stones.

Hard truths. People I outgrew.

Dreams that sank despite the effort.

Regret like barnacles clinging to my ribs.

But the river reminded me:

You don’t stop flowing

just because you hit something.

You learn the art of grace—

how to curve around pain

without losing your direction.

How to let the moment hurt

without letting it harden you.

Even the hardest rocks

can be softened by persistence.

Even your own.

VI. Finding the Flow

One morning, I woke up

and realized I wasn’t afraid of drowning anymore.

I had become the water.

I had let go of the shore,

the map,

the need to be understood.

I didn’t need approval—

I needed alignment.

Not attention—

but intention.

I was no longer chasing the waves

I had envied in others.

I was creating my own.

Because the flow

was never something to find.

It was always within.

VII. Tides Return

Now, when life comes crashing—

as it always will—

I don’t stand still.

I don’t freeze.

I feel.

I move with it.

I bend like branches

that know how not to break.

I ask:

What is this here to teach me?

Not: Why me?

I let it wash through,

and it leaves me cleaner—

not emptier.

That’s the magic of flow:

it never steals,

only shifts.

VIII. For the Ones Who Watch

To the ones still standing on the bank—

I see you.

The hesitant.

The healing.

The heavy-hearted who wonder

if this poem is about them.

(It is.)

Let go of the rope.

Step off the edge.

The river doesn’t want perfection—

just presence.

You don’t need to swim with elegance.

You just need to trust that

what's ahead

knows more than what's behind.

Find the rhythm of your breath,

and match it with the world.

Not all tides destroy.

Some restore.

IX. The Final Stream

We are not meant to remain puddles,

contained and stagnant.

We are meant to pour.

To overflow.

To shape mountains in our passing.

Let yourself move.

Let yourself change.

And if they say you’re drifting,

tell them:

“No, I’ve just found the flow.”