Even Oceans Get Thirsty

Even Oceans Get Thirsty

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

There’s this quiet kind of tiredness that sneaks into the hearts of folks who always show up. It doesn’t crash through the door, shouting or throwing furniture it just eases in, sets up camp in your chest, and starts unpacking. It’s the weight behind your exhale after you’ve poured out pieces of yourself again and again, for folks who often don’t notice or remember that you, too, might be running on empty.

You’ve been the one to listen, to hold space, to offer wisdom wrapped in love, to pray for folks who never once whispered your name in their own prayers. And still, you give. You smile. You lift. Until one day, your own arms are trembling from holding everybody else up. You finally muster the nerve to say, “Hey… I’m not okay,” and suddenly poof people vanish. Some act like your neediness is a personal insult.

My grandmother, Celestine, whose eyes looked like they’d seen more than most folks would dare to dream, once told me something I didn’t understand till life wore me down a bit. I must’ve been around ten, poking at her apron, asking why she looked so far away as she sat out on that old porch swing.

She looked me straight in the heart and said, “Even oceans need water too, son.”

I blinked. I mean, how does that even make sense? Oceans are water. But she just gave me that look the kind that says, “You’ll get it when you’re older,” and sure enough, she was right.

What she meant was this: you can’t just keep pouring yourself out, giving, nourishing, lifting others, and not expect to dry up eventually. Even if you’re made of water, even if you’re deep and wide and full of strength there comes a time when you need rain too. You need to be poured into, not just poured from.

As the years rolled by and I stepped into roles where people looked to me for answers, comfort, inspiration I started to really feel the truth of her words. Being the ocean sounds beautiful, until you realize people show up to take. To rinse their mess, to feel better, to soak in your light. But they don’t always notice when your tides are pulling back. They don’t always hear the cracks in your waves.

I had seasons where I was flat-out exhausted. I was quietly drowning while everyone was sipping from the cup I kept trying to refill. There were nights when I stitched my prayers with tears and days when my smile was just well-rehearsed survival. All I wanted was someone to sit with me, the way I’d sat with others but the seats around me were empty. That’s when her voice came back: “Choose your company wisely.”

She had this way of wrapping heavy truths in the softest metaphors. “If you were having a dinner party,” she’d say, “and the guests were the Creator, the ancestors, and the angels how would you prepare your table? What would you serve? What kind of energy would you bring into that room?”

She wasn’t just talking about good cooking though, Lord knows, she could make greens sing and cornbread dance she meant your heart, your spirit, your intention. Your presence needed to match the sacredness of the guests. And then she’d pause and hit you with the real challenge: “Now, who in your life would you invite to sit at that table with you?”

That’ll stop you in your tracks.

See, it’s easy to keep people around because they’ve always been there. But when you start seeing life through a spiritual lens, you ask different questions. Who in your circle brings peace and not noise? Who would sit next to your ancestors without causing your spirit to squirm? Who prays for you behind your back, instead of gossiping? Who honors your energy, your time, your walk?

And then she’d flip it: “What if the Creator invited you to a dinner party? Would you be ready? Would you show up proud, humble, or somewhere in between? And who could you bring without embarrassing your spirit?”

Whew. That one stung a little.

She always reminded me, “Be careful how you keep your home and how you carry yourself.” And no, she didn’t just mean making your bed or washing the dishes. She meant your spiritual house. The space where your soul sleeps. The way you speak when you’re tired. The thoughts you entertain when no one’s watching. The people you allow to lay their footprints on your peace.

It took me a while and some heartbreak to really get it. Some folks are not meant to walk into your sacred space. Some are only passing through, and that’s okay. Not everyone is a life partner. Not every friend is forever. Some are lessons in pretty packaging. Some are storms that water your roots. And some… some are just loud distractions sent to keep you from hearing your own heartbeat.

You gotta protect your water.

Don’t be the well that never gets refilled. Don’t let guilt convince you that your exhaustion is selfish. And don’t confuse availability with love. Sometimes the kindest thing you can say is “not today.” Even oceans need to rest. Even the sea has a rhythm it pulls back, it breathes, it waits for the moon.

I’ve learned to let myself pause without apology. To say “no” without a PowerPoint presentation. To guard my peace like it’s sacred because it is. And I’ve also learned to let in people who bring water to me. The ones who notice when I’m quiet too long. The ones who pray without being prompted. The ones who don’t mind just sitting beside me, not trying to fix me just being there like good jazz on a Sunday morning.

Most importantly, I’ve learned to sit with the Creator. In stillness. No fancy words. No performance. Just… silence. Because in that silence, I’m reminded that the Source is endless. That even when I feel dry, the skies above me are full. That I’m not here to do everything for everyone. I’m here to be me full, loved, and held.

So if you’re reading this and you feel like you’re gasping for air while holding up everybody else’s world… breathe. Take your hands off the weight. Sit down. Refill. Laugh, cry, take a nap. Eat something warm. Talk to your Creator. And let this be your reminder:

Even oceans get thirsty.

Don’t wait for a drought to start loving yourself well.

And when you set your table spiritually or literally choose your guests with care. Everybody can’t eat from your plate. Some folks come hungry but leave your house messier than they found it. And some, oh, some will wash the dishes without you asking. Keep those people.

And keep some cake for yourself too. Life’s too short not to.