Childless, Cat Lady

Everyone who knows me knows this about me: I’ve spent most of my life wanting things in order. Clean. Kept a particular way. That instinct for control has shaped how I move through the world—my routines, my spaces, my relationships. Over time, though, age and experience have softened me. As I’ve written about before, I’ve learned (sometimes the hard way) to loosen my grip on the things I cannot control.

One of the most powerful, poignant, and frankly perfect places this has shown up in my life is with cats.

No one would ever guess I’d be a pet owner. Least of all me. To be transparent, I tried—no fewer than three times over the years—and failed every single one. The presence of an unknown creature in my home sent my anxiety into overdrive. My space was my sanctuary, and the idea of sharing it felt unbearable.

Then came 2022.

Gray and I were navigating an enormous amount of change and chaos, and once again, Gray asked if we could get a cat. They love animals deeply, and they knew—instinctively—that having one would support their mental health in a meaningful way.

So we went to the Humane Society.

That’s where Gray met their soulmate: a very shy tortie, quiet and cautious, who Gray named Ender. To say Ender changed my life would be an understatement. At first, I drew boundaries—especially around my bedroom and other “safe” spaces. But day by day, she gently ignored those boundaries and claimed them as her own. Most notably, she claimed space in my heart.

She makes me laugh. She brings me comfort. She purrs so loudly it feels like a tiny engine of peace as she settles onto my lap or my chest. When I look at her, I think, I would do anything to have you forever. Ender, sweet and well-mannered, tricked us into thinking we had this whole cat thing figured out. Which led us—inevitably—to get a second cat.

There is a canon event in cat ownership where introducing a second cat makes you question every life choice you’ve ever made. Bug is that event. When we returned to the Humane Society looking for a companion for Ender, we were greeted by a five-month-old orange kitten screaming—screaming—from his enclosure, desperately campaigning for his freedom. Once again, Gray felt called. Once again, we listened.

Ender was… displeased. The adjustment period was rough. Weeks of tension, trial-and-error, and learning a new rhythm. Eventually, we found something that worked. They still fight—mostly

because Bug is a little orange boy bursting with energy and an unrelenting desire to play, and Ender is a princess who must not be bothered with such nonsense.

Bug has captured something entirely different in my heart. He sleeps with me every night. He places his tiny toe beans on my arm when he wants attention. He rests his head on me when he snuggles, as if this was always his spot.

He is my baby boy.

Somehow, without meaning to, I became a cat lady. And in doing so, I learned that love—the aching, bring you to tears kind —doesn’t always look the way you’d imagined. Sometimes it yells at you from a shelter cage. Sometimes it disrupts your carefully curated life. And sometimes, it teaches you that surrender can be its own kind of peace.