The Weight Of Water: Becoming the Hand

Introduction: Sometimes, we wait for someone to save us—from pain, from fear, from the heaviness that pulls us under. But this poem is about a deeper truth: that the hand we wait for might not come from outside. That in our darkest hour, healing often begins when we choose to rise—when we become the hand we were waiting for. 

He wakes with salt caught in his throat

On the seabed near a broken boat.

Amidst the dark, he barely sees—

His face is streaked with silent pleas.

He tries to move, but all in vain,

His limbs held fast by chains of pain.

He thrashes hard to free his frame,

Still clutching guilt he cannot name.

He pleads, he cries, he shouts and yelps,

Hoping someone, somewhere helps.

But he’s too deep beneath the sun,

Where light can’t reach—not even one.

His mind unravels, he's a mess,

Still tangled in unspoken stress.

Ensnared again by shadows' chain,

Though every breath resists the pain.

The fear returns—it always stays.

But this time, he will face the maze.

His eyes ignite with fierce, pure light—

A will to live, a need to fight.

He looks up as a hand breaks through

The murky veil, steady and true.

The chains dissolve into the sea,

And for the first time—he feels free.

The hand pulls with a silent vow,

Lifting him from the darkness now.

No sound is made, no words are shown,

But even the drowning can rise alone.

He kicks, he climbs, and gasps for air—

The ocean fades, the weight still there.

But now he knows he’s not unknown—

That even the lost can find their own.

Reflection: This isn’t just a story of water and drowning. It’s about the emotional heaviness so many carry—the invisible chains of fear, shame, neglect, and longing. And how, even in silence, we can find a way out. Not because someone saves us. But because we begin to believe that we are worth saving. Because we become the hand.