The Burden of Being Peaceful

I am the calm koi.

This is not a title I applied for. There was no interview. No performance review. And yet, every human who leans over this pond seems to agree that I am personally responsible for their inner peace.

This is a tremendous amount of pressure for a fish.

Every morning they arrive, clutching coffee cups and unresolved feelings. They kneel at the stone edge and stare at me like I am a glowing oracle beneath the lily pads.

“Oh wow,” someone always says. “Look how peaceful he is.”

Yes. I am peaceful. Obviously. Do you think this is accidental?

I did not spend fifteen years perfecting The Glide™ for nothing.

The Glide™ is an art. It requires precision. I rise slowly from the depths, allow the sunlight to hit my scales at a flattering angle, then pivot — just slightly — so the white patch near my gills catches the light. Humans love that part. They inhale sharply, as if I have just revealed something profound. A

I have not. I am adjusting to the current situation. Anyway,

Peace does not simply occur. Peace is engineered. It is posture. It is lighting. It is knowing precisely how long to hover before it shifts from “serene” to “concerning.”

I glide at a speed scientifically calibrated to inspire introspection but not alarm. I angle my scales toward the sun at a flattering degree. I allow my tail to drift in what I call Controlled Effortlessness™.

This is not instinct.

This is branding.

I was not always the calm koi.

There was a time — early pond, pre-branding — when I mistook speed for significance.

I darted.

In the shadows.

At leaves.

At my own reflection, which I found deeply suspicious.

The first week after I was introduced to this backyard, I attempted what I believed to be a dignified exploratory leap.

It was not dignified.

It was vertical. Suddenly. Moist.

A child screamed.

Someone dropped a ceramic mug that read World’s Best Aunt.

I landed back in the water with all the grace of a poorly considered decision.

For three full minutes, the humans hovered over the pond in collective alarm.

“Is he stressed?”

“Is the water okay?”

“Should we call someone?”

Call someone.

Because I moved.

That was the day I understood something fundamental about humans:

They do not fear chaos.

They fear visible chaos.

Invisible turmoil? Acceptable. Admirable, even.

But let it ripple to the surface — once — and committees are formed.

After The Incident, adjustments were made.

The pump was inspected.

The rocks were rearranged.

A decorative bamboo fountain was installed, as if ambience could regulate my internal state.

I watched all of this from beneath a lily pad.

Fascinated.

All that concern because I reacted honestly to a shadow.

It was… powerful.

I began experimenting.

If I swam slowly, they softened.

If I hovered near the surface, they exhaled.

If I held still long enough, they projected entire philosophies onto my dorsal fin.

This was information.

Information is leverage.

And so The Glide™ was born — not from serenity, but from data.

I did not become calm.

I became strategic.

Gary arrived a year later.

He has never once conducted an experiment.

He flings himself through existence like a comet with poor impulse control.

Sometimes I envy him.

He thrashes, and the world rearranges around him.

I glide, and the world interprets me.

We are both adjusting to the same water.

But only one of us is expected to represent balance.

On weekends, the crowd thickens.

Visitors gather like I am an exhibit titled Ancient Wisdom, Slightly Damp. They crouch too close. They speak softly, as if volume alone might disturb my aura.

If I remain motionless for too long, they panic. “Is he okay?”

If I dart once — just once — someone gasps.

“He seems stressed.”

Still, they whisper.

“I wish I could be that calm.”

You could not.

You have never had three children tap the surface of your home while shouting, “DO IT AGAIN!”

You have never been described as “symbolic” while digesting a pellet.

You have never maintained composure while Gary (small, reckless, orange) headbutts you for no reason.

Peace is not a personality trait. It is a performance.

And I am very good at it.

On weekends, the crowd thickens. Visitors gather. Phones appear. Someone always crouches too low and nearly falls in. There is pointing. There is reverence.

“He’s ancient,” they say.

I am middle-aged.

“He represents balance.”

I once swallowed a pebble by accident.

“He looks so wise.”

I am thinking about algae. Specifically, whether the patch near the filter is edible or decorative. The line is thin.

One woman in linen pants comes every Tuesday. She clasps her hands and whispers, “I want to be more like you.”

Ma’am.

You have opposable thumbs and health insurance.

I have Gary.

Gary is small, orange, and governed entirely by impulse. He headbutts for sport. He nips for emphasis. He has never once reflected on a decision.

The truth — which no one asks for — is that I am not calm.

I am committed.

Committed to moving slowly so they don’t panic. Committed to gliding instead of darting. Committed to not thrashing when the water gets warm and loud and full of expectations.

Because if I thrash — just once — the entire illusion collapses.

And they need the illusion.

Yesterday, a woman knelt at the pond and sighed the longest sigh I have ever heard. It rippled the water slightly. She stared at me and whispered, “I wish I could just float like that.”

Float.

FLOAT!?!?!?

Madam, I am actively regulating buoyancy!

But I held eye contact. (Well. Fish approximation of eye contact.) I performed The Slow Turn™. I let my tail drift like a silk ribbon in a breeze that did not exist.

She smiled.

She left lighter.

This is my burden.

Sometimes, I attempt minor rebellions. I sink beneath the lily pads. I remain out of sight. I pretend to be “mysterious.”

This does not work.

They lean closer.

“Where did he go?”

“Is he hiding?”

“Maybe he’s deep.”

Yes. I am deep. Thank you for noticing.

Eventually, I must resurface. The gasps resume. The order of the universe is restored.

They do not see what I see.

They do not see the way their shoulders tighten before they arrive.

They do not see how they hold their breath until I move.

They do not see that they are the ones thrashing — not me.

From below the surface, humans look very fragile.

All sharp angles and hurried gestures.

All noise.

I move once — deliberately — and they are quiet.

Imagine wielding that kind of power unintentionally.

It is exhausting.

But I will continue.

I will glide.

I will shimmer.

I will maintain standards.

Not because I am peaceful.

Not because I am wise.

But because stillness, when practiced long enough, starts to look like strength.

And also because someone in this backyard must remain composed while the rest of you dramatically spiral over slightly burnt toast and ambiguous text messages.

Apparently, that someone is a fish.

A middle-aged carp with mild fin pain and a complicated relationship with algae.

So just… breathe.

I will remain composed.

I will keep the water smooth.

I have been calm for so long

I am no longer certain what I am without it.