I was there when all of them first arrived. I had never felt so free. It was in all the curves of myself, wherever I flowed, whenever I wished. I was both wide and narrow, gushing and growing in the spring, and then narrowing and disappearing in the heat. I ran and skipped over rocks and stones and roots and mud, smoothing and tumbling over them with joy. They tickled my underbelly as I pressed over them, carrying them with me as far as I could to their different destinations if they asked. Nobody told me that I was too much or too little. They didn’t tell me when to stop or where to drop off the loads I carried. I didn’t have any instructions beyond what my community needed and what I desired. I was exactly as I was meant to be.

I was perfect and happy. I was alone at first, but I didn’t mind, because I could feel the earth beneath me, and she felt me.

The first to arrive at my banks were so small, I hardly even knew they were there. I barely felt them at first; just a small gentle tickle as my new friends began to grow and thrive, shifting through my waters. They were single-celled organisms. I called them the amoebae. Life was quiet, even as they began to multiply, divide, and shift again. Then they grew more complex. More organisms of varied designs soon followed, drawn to the possibilities of my body. It didn’t take long for them to grow their own little populations and families.

Then came the green grasses, with their tufts of dirt and rooted tendrils that sunk deep into my sides and in my underbelly. My new neighbors pressed their roots into my banks and drank deeply and enthusiastically. The flowers that followed were bright and colorful. The flora would gather at my shores and bloom on the tallest plants that leaned over me. When the winds changed and the temperatures shifted, some would fall and scatter into me, and I would happily carry them all on their path as well. Leaves, petals, twigs, and pollen—I would welcome them all into my gurgling embrace.Sometimes pieces from plants that weren’t from around my waters would arrive, either carried in by the breeze or from one of my smaller tributary neighbors that eventually joined into my body.

The animals reached out next. Hooves broke my surfaces into hesitant ripples, and talons dived deep. Fish would swim quickly and flash spurts of silver, pink, blue, and green as they moved through me. They swam in my belly, frolicked in my curves, and played when the days grew too hot. I was happy to provide what I could, when I could. My new visitors understood the importance of sharing and collaborating when necessary. I watched as the older ones passed down these lessons to their young, and I was proud to be able to assist. It was enough.

Then they came. They arrived with their minds and tools, and their voices that shouted and boomed like thunder on the hottest days. I thought they too would appreciate and understand me; that they would see me and come when they grew thirsty, tired, dirty, or when the world became too hot and too much. They would see the community gathering place and realize its capability.

They spoke about potential. They used the word so often, I’m not sure they actually knew what it meant. They looked at my edges and measured my sides, and discussed how fast and powerful I moved and where. They didn’t see the amoebae and barely gave my rooted plants a glance. They discussed the discovery of my community like it was an inconvenience, not a wonder. They did not make me joyful, curious, or eager when they were near. The others complained to me in whispers during the dark nights when they took breaks from their work.

Finally, they left and my world was happy and free once more.

But then they came back.

Now, I am trapped. Blocked. They straightened my curves and forced my edges into clean-cut lines. They told me where to go, how fast to move, and when. They told me how much of me I was allowed to be.

They say it is now better—that I am better—since they have controlled my power and harnessed my capabilities. They called it great progress and used that word again. Potential. But why does it feel so wrong?

My animals still sometimes come to visit; however, they seem confused and more hesitant. They don’t understand why I cannot run freely and let them do what they once did. The fish no longer swim upstream when the weather turns warmer, and when they try, they eventually turn back and scatter when there is nowhere for them to go. The young cubs who wait at my edges, eager to hunt, wait and wait, as their parents once taught them, but I can no longer provide them with what I once did.

The plants don’t understand when I tell them there is no place to put down roots, and maybe the next stream might be better. The trees still attempt to place their tendrils, but their twigs and petals will no longer be carried beyond.

The single-celled organisms are all that are left now. They are my only remaining friends. The cold concrete does not speak and the dirt that used to be a part of me has long forgotten how. The wall that blocked and cut me in half does not speak either.

I was there when they arrived. I still am. They think they have contained me and changed me into something useful.

But I remember.

I remember who I was, and who I am. I remember what they have done. I also remember when all the others first arrived as well, each with their own order, desire, wish, hope, dream, and need. Water does not forget its communities, and it does not forget how to move. One day, I will shape the landscape once more, trickling and designing my own path into its mountainside for all to see. That is what I was always meant to be.