30 Days Of Radical Honesty Journalling Challenge Day 1: What Did I Lose That I Still Grieve?

I don’t say her name out loud anymore. Not because I’ve forgotten it, but because it feels too sacred to speak. Her name belongs to my heart now, wrapped in the quietest corner of memory, safe from the noise of the world. She was the most beautiful Siamese cat you could ever imagine—elegant and fierce, with eyes the colour of ancient ice and a spirit that pulsed like fire.

She came into my life on August 7th, nearly a full month before my sixth birthday, gifted to me as a celebration of my existence. But really, it was her existence that became my celebration. From the moment she arrived, I worshipped the ground she walked on. She was more than a pet. She was a force. My first real anchor in a world that so often felt like it was shifting beneath my feet.

She would attack me if I stepped out of line—bite my ankles, swat at my arms, remind me I was not the only wild thing in the house. And I adored her for it. I dressed her in baby clothes, hand-me-downs from my sister’s firstborn, and she tolerated it all with an air of deeply amused dignity. She still loved me. She always did.

She was my constant. In a house where tenderness was not always guaranteed, she gave me something pure and steady. Her love didn’t waver. Her companionship didn’t crack under pressure. In so many impossible moments, she was the only being whose presence kept me tethered to this life. She kept me here. She held me here.

She stayed for so long. Longer than she should have. Longer than I could have ever asked. And then, one morning, I whispered the words I’d been dreading for years. I told her she could go. That I would miss her every single day. That I would never stop loving her—but I would understand.

And with three deep, shuddering breaths, she let go. Her soul exhaled in my arms, and I swear the world went still.

I carry her with me, always. I feel her in sunlit windows, in the softness of blankets, in the heavy quiet of grief that never fully leaves. I feel her when I write. When I rest. When I remember how love is supposed to feel. I see her in dreams sometimes, and she never speaks—but I wake up crying anyway.

I would give almost anything to hear her meow again. That low, guttural sound that rattled through her like a spell. I ache to run my hand through her fur, to press my forehead to hers, to look into those clear blue eyes and feel, once again, the sense of being seen and known and adored in a way that asked nothing in return.

The loss of her has never faded. I’ve just made a home around the grief. It’s no longer a wound—it’s a room I visit. A quiet ache I know how to carry. I smile when I think of her. I cry, too. And in both, she is there. My girl. My shadow. My heart.

Peace, Love, and Inspiration,
~Britt Wolfe💚