Sometimes Healing Grows a New Coat

When Frida first came to me, she was tiny and thin. She had recently given birth, her fur was sparse, and the tip of her tongue often peeked from her mouth. She had been living as a stray. I don't know all that happened to her before she found her way here. Perhaps I don't need to. A year has passed. Her body has filled out. Her coat has grown thick and luxurious. She plays with Tigre and follows me from room to room. Sometimes she simply sits at my feet, looking up at me. I like to imagine gratitude in those eyes. But perhaps what I am really seeing is something simpler. Safety. The quiet knowing that there will be food tomorrow. A warm place to sleep tonight. A companion nearby. A gentle hand. A home. Healing did not arrive all at once for Frida. There was no moment when the past disappeared and everything became new. It happened quietly. Meal by meal. Nap by nap. Play by play. Day by ordinary day. Until one morning, the little cat who had arrived so depleted was no longer there. In her place was Frida— soft, round, playful, beautiful... and very much at home. Perhaps healing is often like that. We look for the moment when we will know we are healed, when perhaps healing has been happening quietly all along. Sometimes healing doesn't announce itself. Sometimes it simply grows a new coat. Wren 🐦‍⬛