Candid Conversations Newsletter: The Water Remembers, and So should we

Where clarity meets complexity—and memory becomes resistance

The Body That Holds More Than Water 💦

There’s something mysterious about a body of water.

Whether it’s the Caribbean Sea, a river, or a lake, water humbles. It offers a quiet reassurance that something larger is always at play. An entity that commands respect in a subtle, almost terrifying way.

Maybe its familiarity reminds us of the amniotic sac—safe from uncertainty, yet never more uncertain. A paradox of protection and vulnerability. A memory of life before language, before fear had a name.

What the River Knew Before We Did 🌊

I remember the first time I saw the Mississippi.

Its presence was commanding. I stood in awe, like an ant before an elephant.

I felt something similar at Lake Ontario. Swimming in the St. Lawrence. Watching the sun fall into the Pacific. Water has always brought quiet relief. We depend on it completely, and yet—like most sacred things—we forget to notice it.

The Architecture of Belonging 🏗️

My Whale-minded friend and I grew up in neighboring communities. One agricultural, one patchworked with teachers, officers, factory workers.

We talked recently about self-soothing. About meaning. Identity. The slow collapse of society’s moral fabric. You know—light stuff.

What we realized:

We grew up inside community. Rivers, fruit trees, church, sports, neighborhood banter—these weren’t hobbies. They were scaffolding.

Bonding Capital, Before We Had a Name For It 🫱🏾‍🫲🏾

We didn’t have the language, but we lived the thing.

Bonding social capital. Those inward-facing, grounding relationships that shape and hold you.

The mango trees. The rituals. They weren’t just backdrops. They were our emotional infrastructure. They carried us through storms.

The Mango and the Memory 🥭

Like tasting a mango and suddenly being ten again.

You’re not just remembering. You’re there.

But presence isn’t just proximity.

You can sit next to someone and still feel galaxies apart.

The Erosion Begins Quietly ⌛

With time, I’ve learned the words for what I used to only feel.

And naming it reveals what’s missing.

It’s not just bonding that’s gone—but bridging. The outward connections that linked us to those unlike us.

The church gatherings. The neighbor who lent tools, despite political or religious divides.

When those disappear, we don’t just lose connection.

We lose air. Culture Oxygen.

Where Nihilism Slips In 🫗

Then comes the fog.

Not because we stopped caring.

But because caring with no return is a slow bleed.

The world demands we prove we’re worthy of peace.

And without mirrors of shared values, we start asking—does anything matter?

Performance in the Void 🗣️

So we tighten our grip.

To image. To status. To power.

Not from vanity—but fear.

Fear of being forgotten. Fear that without something shiny, we’ll vanish.

We chase success.

Morphed as evidence that we’re here.

Even Detachment Has a Pulse 🍃 

Eventually, life rips the grip away.

Through crisis. Through loss. Through slow unraveling.

Apathy feels like relief—no pressure, no expectations.

But even emptiness is a message.

The void still asks questions.

The Work Is Not to Fix, But to Remember 🤯

So what do we do?

Maybe we don’t fix everything.

Maybe we name the drift.

Say: I feel it. I don’t want to disappear.

Because wanting meaning is proof you’re not lost.

Remembering is resistance.

Not nostalgia—resistance.

Choosing What We Become 🕉️

And still, the water remembers.

And so do we.

We sit on the shoulders of the stubborn hopeful. 

Of Giants. 

Garvey said it: “What man has done, man can do”

“Lest we forget” isn’t just a warning. It’s a countdown.

I remember reading Iyanla Vanzant.

How I flung the book in frustration, until I realized she was right.

I didn’t cause the chaos I inherited.

But I’m fully responsible for how I respond.

Choices. Acceptance. Responsibility.

Not to fix the world.

But to remember your place in it.

To resist erasure.

To reweave what’s frayed.

Because the water remembers.  

And if it can—so can we.