So something happened, and I have to tell someone—and lucky you, here you are.
Let me take you back for a second. I was about 11 or 12, that magical age where you're too old for dolls but still secretly talking to your stuffed animals. And oh, I had a crew. Every stuffed animal ever gifted to me was part of the family. They were my emotional support squad, my private audience, my soft ego-boosters.
And then one day—I came home, and they were gone. Poof. My mom, who was terrified of anything that breathed (so no live pets), just said, “Oh, you’re too old for those,” and gave them away. Or maybe she tossed them. I was too stunned to ask. My heart cracked in silence that day, and apparently, I never mentioned it again. Not to anyone. Ever.
Fast forward—oh, just 70 years. I’ve got a husband who’s been doing more heavy lifting than Hercules, taking care of his daughter with ALS and, well, me. We’re not in our marathon-running years anymore, so life requires a bit more… patience, caffeine, and rest.
Then out of nowhere, he walks in one day and tosses something into my lap. It’s a stuffed animal.
A kitten.
Silky. Furry. Gentle.
And suddenly, I’m 11 again, and everything comes flooding back. The loss. The quiet heartbreak. The long-buried memory I didn't even know I still carried.
But here’s the magic part: That little kitten? She’s become part of our story. She goes on FaceTime with a great-grandchild I can’t visit in person. We made him a book—yes, the kitten stars in it—and sent him his own twin kitten. It’s like we planted a new seed where something was pulled out by the roots decades ago.
That one small gesture from my husband did something therapy never managed: it unlocked something buried so deep, I didn’t even know I’d sealed the vault.
And that night—because the universe has a wicked sense of timing—I watched Song Sung Blue. (Neil Diamond went to school with my cousins. Brooklyn: where the sidewalks had more talent than Broadway.)
And there’s Kate Hudson, talking about catharsis, and suddenly I’m crying like I just watched Bambi’s mom die for the first time.
Thirty-seven years of marriage, and my husband had never seen me cry like that. I have cried even over a cartoon as my son would like to remind me. Nothing like this, it could've filled buckets.
And here’s what I realized: Catharsis isn’t convenient. It’s messy. It’s soggy tissue boxes and blotchy cheeks and your soul doing a little spring cleaning.
We don’t chase it because it’s not comfortable. But sometimes, it finds us anyway—in the form of a plush kitten tossed into your lap by the person who loves you enough to notice the ghosts you never mentioned.
So if something bubbles up unexpectedly—whether it’s a memory, a stuffed animal, or a tear-streaked movie moment—don’t shove it back down. Let it out. Let it heal. Sometimes the softest things—like faux fur and old wounds—carry the biggest weight.And sometimes, breaking a pattern starts with someone simply handing you love in the shape of a toy.
Tell me—what’s something small that healed something big for you? I’d love to know. Hit reply and share your story.
In the light of love,
Nancy
