I know this isn’t really related to my book or my author journey, but today I wanted to share something deeply personal. Writing has always been my outlet, and right now, writing about this is helping me cope with a loss I wasn’t fully prepared for. This morning, we had to say goodbye to Kiki, our beloved cat, and it’s been an emotional whirlwind. So, while this post may not fit the usual topics, it’s something I need to share, for me, for her, and for the healing process.

Today, I had to say goodbye to Kiki, our beloved cat, in a moment that was both expected and unexpected. It’s strange how grief works like that—one moment you feel a glimmer of hope, and the next, it’s gone, leaving you grappling with the weight of loss. This morning, Kiki passed away in my arms, and I’m still struggling to process that she’s really gone.

Over the last few days, Kiki had been showing signs that her body was starting to shut down. She had lost a lot of weight, barely moving around, and was struggling to eat. We had been doing everything we could to help her, giving her special wet food and a high-calorie supplement gel. I could see her fighting, but the changes were subtle, almost as if she was slowly slipping away.

Then, yesterday, she seemed to turn a corner. She had more strength, more energy, and for the first time in days, she was demanding attention again. It felt like a small victory. Kiki kept waking my boyfriend and me up in the night, pawing at our faces, meowing insistently for pets. She was being her usual demanding self, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of hope. Maybe the extra care we were giving her was helping. Maybe she was bouncing back.

But this morning, after giving her a bath, something changed. I wrapped her up in a towel, cradling her in my arms, and then it happened. She had a seizure, and just like that, she was gone. One moment, she was there with me, and the next, she wasn’t. It felt like the wind was knocked out of me, like I was standing on the edge of hope, and suddenly, everything crumbled.

Her death wasn’t completely unexpected, but it still hit me hard. I had prepared myself for the possibility that Kiki might not pull through, but a part of me believed she would. Especially after seeing that spark of life yesterday, I thought we were turning a corner. So, when she passed, I was left with this strange sense of defeat. Did we not do enough? Should we have intervened sooner?

It’s hard not to play the “what if” game when you lose someone you love, even a pet. Was there something more we could’ve done? Could we have helped her in a different way? I keep wondering if we made the right choices, but deep down, I know that we did everything we could. Still, the doubt lingers, as it always does in moments like this.

Kiki wasn’t just our pet; she was part of our family, a reminder of my boyfriend’s roommate, who passed away two years ago. Though I never met her, I know how much Kiki meant to my boyfriend as a connection to his late friend. We still have one more cat from her, but losing Kiki has added a new layer of grief for him. In a way, it feels like another part of his past slipping away.

The house feels emptier without her now. There’s a silence where her soft meows used to be. No more pawing at our faces in the middle of the night, no more sitting by the window watching the world go by. I keep expecting her to be there, in all her usual spots, but she’s not. And it’s going to take some time for that to really sink in.

My boyfriend came home from work early when I called him in tears over what happened. Once we both regained composure, we decided to have her cremated. We took her to a local funeral home, and they were kind and understanding, which made this difficult process just a little easier to bear. In three to four days, we’ll pick her back up. Her ashes will be returned to us in a pine box, with her name engraved on it—using my boyfriend’s roommate’s last name, to honor where she came from. They’re also making a foam impression of her paw print for us to keep, a small reminder of the presence she once had in our lives.

We’ve been talking about what to do with her ashes, and one idea that keeps coming up is turning a small portion of them into a charm for a bracelet. We have other cats, and we know that, in time, we’ll face this heartbreak again. A charm bracelet feels like a beautiful way to keep all of our fur babies together, even when they’re no longer with us. It’s a way to carry a piece of them with us always, just like they carried a piece of our hearts during their lives.

But even in the sadness, I find comfort in knowing that Kiki isn’t suffering anymore. She’s at peace, and in her final moments, she was surrounded by love. That’s all I could have hoped for. She was with us, and she knew how much we loved her. I believe that with all my heart.

Grief is a strange thing—it hits you in waves, sometimes gentle, sometimes crushing. Today, I feel both sadness and gratitude. I’m sad that Kiki is no longer with us, but I’m grateful for the time we had with her. She brought so much love into our lives, and for that, I’ll always be thankful.

Goodbye, sweet Kiki. You will be missed more than words can say, but you’ll always be in our hearts. Rest in peace, my little girl. You were loved beyond measure, and we’ll carry your memory with us always.