The Shape of Water

The sky is pink, and the air is purple. The sun is leaving behind what it owns during the day, now moving onto the surface of the pond, creating a seemingly endless path to itself. My heart is filled with tranquillity as I witness a sparkling blend of colours, escaping reality and trying to look deeper into myself.

A gentle breeze brushes against me, making my hair dance to its rhythm. I smile as the green grass tickles my bare feet. The beauty of this place amazes me as I gaze into the shallow water, wondering if it, too, is deeper than it seems.

I think about how water, even while playing such a vital role in everyone’s life, is completely shapeless on its own. Though essential to all living beings, it surrenders its form to everything it flows into—borrowing an identity as if unaware of its own worth.

This thought stays with me as I notice an old woman sitting nearby. Her skin is faded, her face wrinkled, her eyes dull like her greying hair. She seems lost in her own thoughts, gazing at the lake the same way I have been. I wonder if she, too, pities the water and sees it as a symbol of low self-esteem. Her expression is sorrowful, tinged with regret, as she stares at the pond.

I imagine her reflecting on her life—on whether, like water, she too spent her years adapting to everyone else’s needs. Becoming whatever her changing families demanded: a sufficient daughter, a sufficient wife, a sufficient mother. Always enough for others, perhaps never enough for herself.

But then, just as I begin to believe in her sadness, she smiles.

And in that moment, I have an epiphany.

It’s not the water or the woman’s life that is shallow—it’s our perspective. The vessel may have shaped the water outwardly, but in doing so, the water offered part of its purity to illuminate it. Likewise, it wasn’t low self-esteem that shaped the woman’s sacrifices. It was her strength. She didn’t see her choices as burdens but as acts of love. Her happiness was rooted in the joy of those she nurtured.

That smile wasn’t bitter; it was filled with memory, pride, and peace.

Like water, she never complained. She simply flowed, making a soft, mellifluous sound each time she transformed. I begin to understand the world through her eyes. She wasn’t shapeless because she lacked identity—she was shapeless because no one ever looked close enough to see her true form.

I don’t know what others think the shape of water is. But now, like the old woman, I’m sure of mine.

It may appear shapeless on the surface, but give it time—look a little deeper—and you’ll see it’s multi-faceted, steady, and profoundly human. With each new form and each new sacrifice, its essence stays the same: beautiful, pure, and quietly powerful. It leaves behind an impression not because it is weak, but because it touches everything with honesty.

Water isn’t formless.
It has many shapes.
And all of them matter.