What the River Taught Me About Being Soft

“Baby girl, the river taught me that if I learn how to yield, I can still shape stone.”

I swore my mother spoke in riddles every time I needed advice about a disappointment. I sniffled and wiped my tears away with the back of my hand.

“Mom, I love you, but your country-origin proverbs are over my head right now. I need you to give it to me straight.”

I knew what was coming next. I knew this part of our heartfelt conversations all too well. My mother burst out laughing, and so did I.

“I guess I did it again, huh?” she asked with a chuckle. “Ok, here’s what I mean: Go sit by the Savannah River every day for a week in the afternoon. Think about your problems and how you struggle with letting go of control. Write about what you learn and let’s discuss it afterwards.”

My mother wiped the tear from my left cheek before it reached my chin.

Truthfully, I didn’t want to go.

Not the first day.

The idea of sitting still with my thoughts felt like punishment, like reopening a wound I had barely managed to bandage. There was discomfort in the silence. But something in the way my mother said, gentle yet firm, told me this wasn’t a suggestion. It was medicine.

So I went.

The river didn’t greet me. It didn’t care that my heart felt like it had been dragged across gravel. It didn’t ask about him, or why I stayed as long as I did, or why I kept trying to love someone who only met me halfway.

It just moved.

Steady.

Unapologetic.

I sat on the bank, arms folded, watching the water pass like it had somewhere better to be.

“Must be nice,” I muttered.

Day two, I brought my journal. I didn’t write much. Just fragments of thoughts.

He said I was too much. I tried to be less. It still wasn’t enough.

The river kept moving.

Day three, I noticed the way the water curved around rocks instead of crashing into them. It didn’t fight. It didn’t argue. It just adjusted; shifted its body, found another path, kept going like nothing could stop it for long.

I frowned at that.

“Is that what you meant, Mom?” I asked out loud, as if she could hear me from miles away.

Day four, I cried. Not the quiet kind either. The kind that shakes your chest and makes your throat burn. The kind you try to hide from even yourself.

I thought about all the times I clenched my teeth instead of speaking up. All the times I tried to control how he saw me, how he loved me, how he stayed.

I thought about how tight I had been.

Rigid.

Unyielding in the wrong ways.

The river didn’t stop for my tears. It carried on, full and free, like it trusted itself to keep going no matter what it lost along the way.

Day five, I dipped my hand into the water.

It was cool. Softer than I expected.

I let it run through my fingers, watched how easily it slipped away no matter how tightly I tried to hold it.

That’s when it hit me.

Soft didn’t mean weak.

Soft meant moving.

Soft meant not gripping so hard that you break yourself trying to keep something that was never meant to stay.

Day six, I wrote pages.

I tried to shape love into what I needed. But love is not stone in my hands. I am the river. And I forgot how to flow.

I sat there longer than usual, watching the sun stretch gold across the surface. For the first time in weeks, my chest didn’t feel so heavy.

Day seven, I didn’t cry.

I just sat. Breathed. Listened.

The river spoke in its own language; gentle, constant, sure. And somehow, I understood.

When I went back home, my mother was already at the kitchen table, two cups of tea waiting.

She didn’t ask right away. She never did. She just looked at me the way mothers do, like she could see the shift before I said a word. She knew that I had been transformed.

“Well?” she asked finally, raising an eyebrow.

I sat down across from her, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.

“I get it now,” I said softly.

She smiled. “You wanna explain it to me?”

I nodded.

“The river… it doesn’t fight everything in its way. It moves around it. But over time, it still shapes what once felt immovable.” I paused, searching for the right words. “I thought being strong meant holding on tighter. Controlling more. But I was just… exhausting myself.”

My mother leaned back, satisfied. “Go on.”

“Being soft isn’t about letting people walk over you,” I said. “It’s about knowing when to release. When to move. When to trust that you’ll still become who you’re meant to be, even if things don’t go the way you planned.”

She nodded slowly.

“And him?” she asked gently.

I exhaled.

“He was a rock,” I said, not bitterly, just truthfully. “And I kept trying to turn him into something else. But I don’t need to break myself against him to prove I can love.”

My mother reached across the table and took my hand.

“That’s my girl.”

I smiled, a real one this time.

“Guess your riddle wasn’t so confusing after all.”

She laughed. “Baby, life don’t speak plain. It whispers. You just learned how to listen.”

And for the first time since the heartbreak, I didn’t feel like I was drowning.

I felt like I was flowing.

About Kiyaza

Zakiya Hakizimana shares her writing talent as Kiyaza the Poet, a multifaceted author and creative whose work bridges poetry, prose, design, and self-discovery. In her book of poetry, Lost Between the Sheets, she invites readers into her intimate journey through relationships, friendships, and the layered experiences of life as a Black woman. Beyond her literary voice, Kiyaza channels her artistry into Water Lily Studios, a design platform of journals and planners, where she encourages creativity, organization, and self-sufficiency in everyday life.

Her latest creation, Poetry in Bloom, is a collection of handmade, framed poems adorned with pressed flowers, celebrating beauty, resilience, and the art of storytelling.

Kiyaza’s writing focuses on the raw and reflective journey of self-discovery while exploring love, loss, healing, and growth through the lens of a Black woman’s experience.

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