But I have learned that resisting the water is not courage—it is exhaustion. True courage is learning to float. True courage is saying, “This is gone. And I am still here.”
It moves. It changes shape. It finds the cracks.
But life is not land. Life is water.
You look for the people who showed up with towels and coffee and silence. You look for the stories that didn’t need photographs to stay alive. You look for the part of yourself that didn’t drown—the part that is still breathing, still standing, still willing to rebuild.
Not to mourn it forever. But to honor it. To say: You existed. You mattered. And now you are part of the great flow of everything that has ever been loved and lost. Lo Que El Agua Se Llevo
Lo que el agua se llevó is a sentence of loss. But it is also a sentence of movement. And movement, even painful movement, is still life. What has the water taken from you? And what—against all odds—remains?
And then, tomorrow, turn your face upstream. Not to go back—you can’t go back. But to see what is still coming. But I have learned that resisting the water
The water will bring new things. Not replacements. New things. New people. New versions of yourself you haven’t met yet.