We were just casually talking about people and their personalities—not judging, just recognizing how different everyone can be.
“Be happy that I didn’t put you in a box…” she said.
“A box? What do you mean? And why should I be happy?” I asked, genuinely confused.
“I’ve met a lot of people,” she continued. “And in my mind, I tend to categorize them based on their traits. But with you… you didn’t fit into any of my boxes. You’re like water.”
“Water?” I repeated, more intrigued now. “I’m not sure I follow.”
She tried to put it into words. “People usually have a certain limit when it comes to how much they give, how much they care. But you? When you care about someone, you give your whole self. No ego. No pride. No walls. You become whatever they need you to be. That’s why you’re like water—you take the shape of whatever vessel you’re poured into.”
I was quiet for a moment, then asked with a grin, “So how many people do you have in this ‘water’ category, so far?”
“None,” she replied. “Only you.”
“Oh,” I laughed, a bit surprised. “That’s… interesting.”
Honestly, I was stunned. I thought she would say more than one. Her words caught me off guard.
Should I be happy about that? I think I was. Actually, I was happy to hear that.
But at the same time, deep down, I know that what she described—that ability to give without limit—is also what leaves me emotionally vulnerable. That same quality that makes me “like water” also opens the door for people to take me for granted. And some did. More than once.
But did I care? Not immediately.
I act like I don’t, like I’ve moved on. But the truth hits me later—when the damage is done, and I’m left picking up the pieces.
This past year? It was a year of heartache. Three major heartbreaks. And no, don’t let your mind jump to romance—it wasn’t that. These heartbreaks came from people close to me—close friends, and family. That kind of pain lingers in a different way. And it took me months to recover.
The thing about emotional pain is that it doesn’t announce itself with drama. It just sits there quietly, until one day it spills over when you least expect it. It’s not about tears or visible sadness. Sometimes it’s just the sudden silence, the loss of excitement over things you once loved, the way your laughter fades a little too quickly.
Being like water… it sounds poetic, right? But it’s exhausting. It means you adapt to everything and everyone. You fill the gaps. You adjust. You soothe. And in doing that, sometimes you forget to ask yourself—who’s pouring into me? Who’s holding my shape?
There were days I gave my all and got nothing back. Still, I didn’t want to change. Because even when people took advantage, I knew that being “water” was not a weakness. It was strength. It takes strength to love unconditionally.
But strength doesn’t mean boundary-less. That’s something I had to learn the hard way.
Over time, I started understanding the importance of where I flow, and who deserves my presence. Water nourishes—but it can also erode. It can sustain life or break down stone. I had to learn to be water with purpose.
It wasn’t easy. When you’ve always said ‘Yes‘, saying ‘No‘ feels like betrayal. But it’s not. It’s protection. It’s choosing peace over pleasing.
I still want to be like water. But now, I want to be like a river with a course. Still fluid, still gentle, but with direction. I want to be the kind of water that flows where it’s valued, where it brings growth—not where it’s drained.
I’m learning that being emotionally available doesn’t mean being emotionally exposed. That you can love deeply without losing yourself. That you can give without going empty.
I’m still me. Still soft. Still warm. Still water. But I’m learning to choose the vessels I pour myself into.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s what real growth looks like.
I think back to those three heartbreaks. Each of them taught me something vital. The first reminded me that even the people who say they love you can leave when your vulnerability becomes inconvenient. The second showed me that some people will only love you when you’re strong, but not when you’re struggling. And the third? That one taught me silence can hurt more than words ever will.
It’s strange how heartbreak doesn’t always come with a grand betrayal. Sometimes it’s just someone you trusted not showing up. A missed call when you needed to be heard. A closed door when all you needed was a sliver of understanding.
Yet, I still don’t regret giving. I don’t regret loving the way I do. Because the truth is—my softness is not a flaw. It’s a rarity. And I’ve decided to protect it.
I’ve stopped justifying my empathy, or my need for genuine connection.
I’ve realized that the world doesn’t need more hard people. It needs more softness, more presence, more people who care without conditions. But it also needs boundaries—healthy ones.
That’s my lesson. That’s my clarity.
And finally… that’s my peace.
I’ve learned that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means remembering without the sting. It means being able to recall everything and still breathe easy. And I’m almost there.
There’s a gentle kind of power in knowing that you can bend without breaking, pour without emptying, and love without losing yourself.
And here’s to those of us who love hard, feel deeply, and finally choose ourselves.
We’re not weak. We’re not naive. We’re just real.
And real? Real is rare.