The Moment

I was hers.

I was her from that very first moment, and from that very first moment she was mine.

When I was younger, there was only one thing I really wanted—and when I say wanted, I don’t mean the half-hearted want that all kids feel. It wasn’t that want of a new toy or pretty dress or that Disneyland trip. No, those were finite things—whims—something. This want was something more—something I felt in my bones. Something that parents couldn’t say no to in hopes I would forget in a year or two. It was desire…my first raw desire.

So I asked for it. I asked for it time and time again. “Daddy, can I get a cat?” “Mom I want a cat.” “Can we get a kitten?” I painted my desire in every manner I could. Year after year. Holiday after holiday. Birthday after birthday.

The first time I asked for a cat, I was given one with plush for fur and beads for eyes. It was added to my clout of stuffed cats, but it would never animate into real life.

The second time I asked for a cat, I was given a book. “Now you can have all of them.” It was an encyclopedia of cats that detailed breeds and diet, and all the things you should know about how one cat differs from the next. I read it back and forth, picked out my favorite breeds and then read it again. But no matter how many times I flipped those pages, they would never leap from the pages and into my arms.

The last time I asked for a cat, another book was placed in my hands. 100 ways to pamper your cat. For the first time, I was excited to read this book back and forth. To pamper your cat—your cat—I fixated on. It was like a promise that my cat was coming soon but as weeks turned to months and months turned into a year, it became nothing more than a cruel joke.

I gave up asking after that, but the desire never left. I was just tired of talking to a wall. I remember receiving a puppy in lieu of a cat one year even—and while I was happy and loved her dearly, she was never quite the same. But I let my love of her momentarily try to convince myself a loving pup would be enough.

I remember my best friend’s cat had kittens one year and I went over often to play with them. I begged my parents to keep one—just one. I told them all I would do to take care of it, told them how well we got along.

The kitten went to a loving home. But it wasn’t ours. I let the defeat sink in this time. I’d never had something so close in my fingertips to only have it ripped away. But it was a nice taste of reality…we all don’t get what we want.

Until one day I did.

One summer around the end of May, a mother cat gave birth to a litter of what we can hope was only three. The mother was either a stray or an outdoor cat who’d never gone home to show it’s owners it’s litter. When the kittens were old enough to leap and pounce, the mother cat lead them to an empty parking lot where they lived off the mice and birds that scurried on through. Until a lady found them.

“My friend MJ found some stray cats.”

My mom and dad had called me down to tell me the news.

“She wanted to know if we wanted to keep one.”

I could’ve cried I was so happy. I don’t think I could hide my excitement and it felt as if the words I heard were the starting line to a joke. But they weren’t. Finally, they weren’t.

The car ride to MJ’s house was all an excited blur. I’m sure my brother was playing a game on his Pikachu Gameboy color and my parents likely talking about something random in the front seat. But I was vibrating. Every fiber of my being as alight in anticipation and my heart was pounding in my chest.

I was surely imagining the life I would have with the kitten I was on my way to meet. But my mind would’ve never known just how wonderful that life would be. I remember the car stopping in front of MJ’s house…and I remember my breath being held as we knocked on the door.

MJ greeted us at the door, telling us the cats were upstairs and she’d go get them and bring them down. But I wasn’t paying attention in the slightest. All that I was, and all the breath I still had in my tiny body had come to a stop. Just behind MJ and to the left, a small black cat appeared on the stairs.

She was running down them—stopping just as I did as her huge green eyes—reminiscent of a doll—met mine. And just like that our fate, our lives, were forever intertwined.

I tried playing with the other cats. I’d wanted a tabby—a cute tabby, but it wasn’t the same. I tried playing with the runt of the litter—she was cute. Small. But it was never the same. It was not the same as the green eyes I’d met with. It was never like the doll-like eyes that focused me. Like the gentle paws at my feet that wanted to play. Like the sweet meow that drew me to her.

We were sealed. Intertwined. One. There wasn’t another option.

She was the one.

The day she came home I was so excited. She came out of her traveling case. All shyness. All hesitance. But when she saw me it didn’t matter. It was new—but we knew each other. Somewhere, somehow, we would always know each other.

I named her myself.  


Written the way a fourth grader would write. Never sounding the way the letters were stitched together.


Because I was urged not to name her the first thing I had in mind.


Because it was the name of a fictional cat—a fluffy cat—one that looked nothing like her but frequented my writing journals.


Because it just…fit.

She was everything I wanted. Everything I needed.

We spent our days, happy. Happiest I’ve ever been. And she was so small. And so brave. And so energetic. And sassy. And cuddly. And comforting.

She was everything—my everything.

I used to have a canopy atop my bed. I remember the night she climbed it with the tiny claws. I awoke, 1am or later, to look up the stars and see the universe—my universe—to see her hanging above my head, claws stuck in the net.

A soft mewl. A gentle apology. A faint cry for help.

And I would be there every time, fetching her from the stars and down to earth. Holding her close.

I took the canopy down the next day.

I remember out first argument. Her brooding self not wanting anyone nearby.

I remember her throwing a hissy fit—the only time she’d turn her ears back at me.

I remember she had been spooked. That noises outside were too loud.

I remember her retreating and trying to be safe only for a box to fall next to her.

She was scared. She felt trapped. Threatened. She was panicked. So I soothed her. I took away the scary things. But she was still afraid. She reached for my hand that day with fangs and claws as I moved the box. It stung so much. But I surrendered to her and let my hand fall limp. It didn’t take long for her to stop. For her fear to fade, for her to realize she was safe. For her to lick my hand in apology—to crawl into my arms, to hide her head in my neck—to be safe.

That was the day I realized…sometimes love was painful. But that love, unconditional, was worth the scars.

I remember the day she saw her first Christmas tree. I saw how the lights reflected in her eyes—glittering with the innocence of the season. I saw how she looked at the decorations and color in awe. I saw how her nose twitched as it sniffed the pine she’d never smelled before.

She knocked the tree down that year. She climbed through the branches, knocking baubles every once and a while. I remember wondering where she was, when she stepped just in the right spot, and the tree went toppling. I cared more about her than the broken ornaments, and while scared, she was safe in my arms.

It took two more years before we learned to fasten the tree to the wall. It took another year for her to learn not to climb it in the first place.

I remember the day she got out of the house. We had company over—old friends. People were everywhere—chatting—friendly. Nobody knew the door had been open too long. But I noticed her not there. I looked, I scoured—I turned blankets and cushions upside down. And then—a knock. The pizza delivery man who had brought provisions for us kids. I was called to dinner—and she was there.

Dad said she’d run in when the door opened. It was then we realized. She had wandered out—but did not wander far into the night. No, she had stayed right on the porch—stayed where she knew it was safe—stayed where she was home—and waited for the warm light of an open door to invite her back in.

She never left the house again. When we’d sit on the porch, she’d cling to me desperately—head tucked under my chin as I rocked her gently. I wouldn’t let her go.

I wish I could remember all the days. I wish I could remember them in detail. I wish I could breathe them in like air. But the truth is they are a blur—the days, the years, they become one great shining memory with her at the center.

She was my friend, my therapist. My daughter, my mother. My caretaker, my secret keeper. She was the only constant in my life. She was my everything. On the darkest days, she was there. Quietly, softly, but there. There was never a need for words. There was just understanding—a language only we could speak. A language only we could understand.

I never taught her anything, but oh did she learn. When did a snap become a word? I can hardly remember. But it became part of that language. Come here, stay, listen to me, it’s okay, I’m coming, it’s dinner time, relax, I’ll protect you, I love you. It meant everything all at once and only we could hear the gentle differences.

The meows became song, the looks became direction, the tail flicks her way of speaking. And I understood them all. She was teaching me as much as I was teaching her. Seamlessly flowing together like a river and the ocean, feeding into each other.

If I could paint happiness, I would paint her over and over again. Because she never slowed down. With me she was youthful—always playing, always talking, never showing the years. The vet used to be shocked when we’d tell them how old she really was. She was too young looking, and small—so small still even though she was never the runt. And her eyes—those doll-like eyes were filled with too much life. And her teeth never rotted, never grew weak, was only ever strong.

But she had had a life before us. And when she aged, we learned of it. Likely hereditary. Kidney disease.

I paid for everything straight out of my pocket. I didn’t make a lot at first…but every penny went to her. To make sure she had everything she needed. To make sure she was healthy as she could be. To make life easier for her when finally she began to walk a little slower. But she never stopped. She always moved, always played—never changed.

Until one day we did not change—the world did. Our world. A simple visit, a monthly check up. The month before they told us it was good, she was putting on weight. This month, devastation.

A growth. Something that had added on the pounds. And it was a flurry. The ordeal, the visits, the specialists and x-rays, the waiting rooms, the panic attacks in a corner of my office where no one could hear me gasping for breath. Where my vision could dot in black, where my tears could flow from red rimmed eyes. Where I was called poor. Where I was too poor to pay for her bills. Where I was told there was no aid for a cat of her age. No matter if she was otherwise healthy. There would be no help.

I took her home the day I was belittled. The day I felt my chest constrict. The day my world came crashing in.

A month ago they told me everything was fine. How could so much change in a month?

How could her, who had never changed, be at the end of the rope? I watched her like they said. But she was fine. She played with her catnip mice. She followed me around the house. She woke me up to be fed in the morning and slept by my head at night, cuddled up where I could feel her heartbeat. And when I cried and held her close, she looked at me with eyes that for once, didn’t quite understand.

It was the toughest choice I had to make. And it was all mine—no one could help me. Not with the money. Not with the choice.

It was the worst experience of my millennial life.

To grow up and be told you were too poor to keep your whole world alive.

No cavalry would be coming. All because the remaining days left were an unknown—and she had seen so many already.

A hurt has never gone so deep. I didn’t want to make the choice. But there was no other choices left. And the whole time, she just snuggled to me like it was any other day.

…The night before I couldn’t sleep. I haven’t been able to since. I remember holding her close, and all I could do was apologize. I told her a story, I told her a happy story. About a girl and her cat. And how they never had to leave each other. I told her of happy times, of trees falling down and staircases. I read to her the night before Christmas, knowing that this year she would not get to hear it. I sang to her the lullabies she always seemed annoyed with. And she listened to it all, curled up and purring. Meowing every so often as if responding to my stories. And then when she was tired, all I did was stare in silence. I studied her. Every part—those soft paws, her sharp claws. The way her warm brownish-black felt underneath my hand. The curves of her whiskers. The small white spot on her chest and the feel of her nose. The way her tail curled around her feet, and the way her body curved into mine. The weight of her against my side. And her doll-like eyes. Those doll-like eyes that stared at me…and seemed to tell me it was okay. At last…it was okay. There wasn’t a need for words anymore. There was just understanding.

I didn’t let her leave on a cold table. I didn’t let it happen surrounded by strangers. With what money I did have I made sure she was comfortable at home. And I held her in our bed. I wrapped her in my arms for one last time, and she relaxed into my chest—that furry head tucked beneath my chin.

“Let’s go to sleep.”

I whispered to her as the first shot kicked in. And her eyes stared at me the last time as they closed into sleep. And together we fell back into the pillows, like any other nap. Her weight was at my side…cuddled close like always. A soft snore emitting from her little nose. I had promised I would never let her go. We were comfortable, and as she snored, I recited our story again. Meaningless words. But words all the same—words of a time—a happy time—when a girl and her cat would never be parted. Because I knew she could hear…and so I would tell her of canopies and opened doors and falling boxes. And she was curved against me where we could feel our hearts beating in a rhythm that would never match. I told her of times when a cat would steal chicken from her girl’s plate. Of Christmas tinsel on the ground not meant to played with. Of rough licks against human skin. Even when the two became one—I told stories of a girl who belonged to a cat and a cat that belonged to a girl.

There would never be a day that that girl wouldn’t think about her world. There would never be a day that she didn’t see it in everything she did. There would never be a day she wouldn’t wake up and remember that something was missing. Never a day where she’d be able to sleep in an empty bed. Never a day I didn’t cry, remembering what was lost. Never a day I didn’t miss the warmth. The understanding. The purpose to be.

Her blankets remain unwashed. The floors in our room unvacuumed. The toys collected and kept in a box. Her furniture untouched. But her space, my heart—empty.

I wanted her to have a few more years. I wanted her to slow down herself. I wanted to give her more—so much more—than she got. I wanted the one thing we are always denied—time.

Time for goodbye.

Time for her to decide she was ready.

Time that we had already lived.

Time that we’d been denied.

I wanted it more than I wanted to breathe—I want it more than I want to breath. Time. Time to go back and relive it all—every moment, every breath, every heartbeat, every good time and every bad time. Time to have everything again now that I am nothing.

Time to look into those doll-like eyes. Time to pet the silk like fur. Time to listen to the soft mews and feel the rumbling purrs. Time. Because now that it was gone…I was never the same. A piece of me will always be gone, taken—placed deep within her soul.

Because from that moment—that very first moment when those green-doll like eyes looked into my heart from the stairs—it was clear.

She was mine.

She was mine from that very first moment, and from that very first moment, I was hers.

And we always would be.


Why do you write?

People ask me what I want to do and they seem surprised when I say “Write”. Why? Because apparently people look at me and see someone who is smart, who can do all these things, and who can “command” a room. That’s not true. The truth is, I may be smart–but I’m not as smart as everyone thinks. I can command a room, but not with power or interest.

You see, ever since I was little I had a simple idea of what I wanted to do “I want to make a difference. I want to save people.” It seems simple enough–there’s so many things to do. So I tried. I tried to be a biochemist–to dabble in it in hopes of becoming a cancer researcher. Well, it turns out I’m rather shit at science. Honestly horrible. I pass classes only by studying my ass of, but quite honestly I’m terrible at most anything that has to do with actual scientific testing. Plus it has a lot of math sometimes and I suck at math. I can barely do arithmetic in my head.

So I thought, maybe I’ll become a psychologist. Sadly, I apparently am not good at talking to people. Well, at least in the way psychologist’s should. I understand them, but I’m really bad at actually listening and giving helpful advice…or so I’m told. Besides, I get too sad listening to others problems. It hurts me to see other people’s pain so intimately.

Well, then what if I did something else? A doctor! I can be a doctor. Too bad hospitals freak me out and to be honest, I don’t think my own mind would allow me to be a doctor. Plus I won’t lie to you…I’ve never given it an honest try because I sucked so bad at anything that requires deep concentration and a steady hand (I’m a natural klutz).

So then I realized I was having a problem. How can I help someone when all that I tried I was either not good enough at, just plain out got bored with? I was at a complete loss. Everyone was telling me I could do anything and yet I knew it wasn’t true because I did have limitations in my own skills. What was I to do? What could I possibly do to “save” people and make a difference? Write.

It took me a while to come to this conclusion, but I’d always been writing–ever since I was a kid (y’know–on the walls with crayons). So my solution was staring at me in the face. I, who raved about stories that changed my life. I, who always was inspired to write down what I saw around me. I–I could be a writer. All of a sudden, I realized that stories, art–they can make a difference. They can make someone feel not so alone, they can inspire, can heal. Stories have this beautiful power of being able to be whatever you make them. Which is why I decided that I wanted to write stories; beautiful stories, powerful stories, stories that showed the good and the bad of life. Stories that came from somewhere deep and showed a part of the human experience.

Ever since I came to this conclusion, I’ve been able to proudly tell people “I want to be a writer” and when they ask I can tell them easily “because I want to make a difference. I want to write stories that’ll touch people. That’ll give them hope or make them feel less alone.” Because I may not be good at math or science or talking in great crowds, teaching, or more, but that doesn’t mean I can’t change someone’s life. No matter what you do, you can always change someone’s life. Maybe not in the obvious ways, but even just the smallest.

It’s a Holly Jolly Season

It’s that wonderful time of year! Christmas season is well underway and the streets are lit up with fairy lights. As much as I love fall weather, snow and cold is also lovely. There’s something about icicles on bare tree branches that is just absolutely beautiful. It really gets me wanting to write something in an attempt to capture the magic of the season.

Of course as much as I want to write, I also want to go out and enjoy the weather. There’s so many wonderful and festive things about December. Be it holiday shopping, mulled wine, roasted chestnuts, Christmas Bizarre’s, the festival of lights, ice skating (which I’m fairly bad at), hot chocolate, or just hanging around with friends and family–there’s just so much to do! I recently decorated my Christmas tree (and pretty much the entire first floor) while listening to Christmas music and it was just so divine. One of my favorite parts of decorating is being able to go around and look at all the ornaments we’ve had. Almost every single decoration has a history behind it–a story of whytree and when it was purchased or made. Some represent family trips, others friends, some are from childhood, others derive all the way back to my mum decorating her mother’s tree. Putting all the decorations up is like re-reading a good book-happy to turn each page and relive the moments once again.

In particular, I’ve noticed just how many angel ornaments we have. I wonder if that’s why I took to angels in my book series? I wouldn’t put it past myself. We also have an angel atop our tree instead of a star. Funny thing is that angel is as old as me. Apparently the year I was born, my parents didn’t have anything to put on top of the tree and my two-year-old brother asked our mother why there wasn’t an angel at the top. I think she was a little perplexed as to why he specifically asked about an angel and not a star like most Christmas trees. Either way, she decided to trek out all the way to Michael’s and found pretty much the only angel they had left. Then she had to call our father to pick her up from the store for some reason and when he asked why she was all the way out there she recounted the story. So that’s why we have an angel sitting atop our tree. She isn’t a fancy angel–her wreath is falling from her hands, and she almost never sits properly at the top of the tree, but somehow this year she did. Maybe that’s a good sign. I’m sure we could all use some luck or guidance.

I also have a TON of holiday shopping to do before Christmas (as well as other events). So much that I’ve actually considered using my Youtube channel at last and doing a 12 days of Vlogmas up until Christmas. It’s a good excuse to kick my butt into actually posting content on my Youtube. What do you guys think? Anyone interested in 12 days of Vlogmas? Let me know! A link to my channel can be found in the social media pins.

I hope everyone has a great holiday season! Make sure to spend time with your family and friends. Be nice to each other and enjoy the holidays!

Don’t forget to seek out adventure!




Writer Talk & Sake

You know what every good writer needs every once and a while? Another writer to talk to.

–And alcohol. Mostly the alcohol.

The other day I went on a nice excursion to the mall with my fellow writer friend and we enacted that terribly stereotypical and entirely accurate depiction of girls going shopping for fun. We did and we shopped a ton. I really don’t remember the last time I’ve shopped so much (mostly cause of the lack of money [yeah totally becoming that other stereotype of the broke author]). I normally go window shopping and this time I actually bought quite a few bits and pieces and spent most of the day shopping. Of course this was fine since I was supposed to be resting my wrist from typing anyway.

Anyway, so after shopping we decided to get some food to eat and talk about writing. We went to a Japanese restaurant we frequent and ordered a bunch of appetizers and one other we really needed: SAKE. Got ourselves a tiny bottle and started drinking it before our food even came. It’s probably not best to feed into the stereotype of the struggling writer always drinking but in this moment of weakness we definitely did.


Over our drinks and food we had a nice talk about each other’s stories. We had a nice talk about what our favorite part of our books was. The funny thing was, though we could each pinpoint exactly what our favorite part in each other’s books, we honestly couldn’t figure out our favorite parts in our own work. Perhaps because we are too close to our writing to be able to pick anything that particularly stands out…

Still, I thought it odd we couldn’t find the best in our own work so I decided it should be our task (or homework if you wish) to think about our favorite part. I think it’s important that authors are able to distinguish the one moment in their own book that they liked the most–whether for description, dialogue, feeling, or action. It’s nice to be able to think “ah, that was good”. Creators of anything really need to be able to be humble as well as look at their own work and see what is great about it.

So, now you know my homework for the week. I’m going to think hard on what I believe my favorite to be. So for whoever is reading this, I task you with the same homework: What is your favorite part of something you’re working on?

Don’t forget to seek out adventure!


Old friends & Coffee

Over the summer I found that a lot of people I used to know managed to apparate into my life again. It all started with my friend who, out of all things, lives down the street and whom I hadn’t talked to in a while.  Once the best of friends we grew apart and yet connected last January again over coffee. During the summer I saw her a few more times, either dancing or having coffee dates. It was a little awkward but overall nice (a subject we touched on). It was nice because even though we’d both changed and it was a little strange at first, before we knew it it was like no time had passed at all. It was like we were back in the days when we talked about everything and had fun. It was just that we were older and instead of drinking lemonade we were drinking IPA’s.

Aside from her, I bumped into other friends (a few of which also live in the same neighborhood as I and her. How ever did we grow apart?) and the same kind of things happened with them (I bumped into most of them at bars/lounges) and it was both fun and still weird. You see, while we all felt like we were all in the same place in life (nowhere), we also seemed slightly…competitive. As we chatted it was a huge game of who has done more things and who has had the craziest “adult” life yet (can I say adult if we’re only like twenty-two?). The more I spent time with old friends the more it seemed that since we all knew we were in the same rut, it was only a matter of who had the best time getting there. It made me wonder about that scenario you see played out on television where at the high school reunion you go to flaunt off your success. But again, this time it wasn’t so much success as it was how fun things are.

Which of course got me thinking…why were we all out there dancing and drinking and “enjoying our twenties” when all we talked over coffee about was jobs, books, adult life, and the troubles we were having? Well, it wasn’t hard to figure out. You see, we’re all coming back into town after graduating college and the funny thing is none of us did what we set out to. We never got the ring to Mordor, we didn’t find the Horcruxes, we didn’t even get the lantern into the pumpkin in time. That’s not to say we didn’t do anything in college. We all had great times, got our degrees, and acquired mass amount of loans, but none of us are coming back bragging about that amazing job or internship that is lined up for us straight out of college. Most of us can’t even give the amazing love story of meeting their Marshall or Lily during college Most of us can just say, “yeah, well I’m looking for a job to save up to do…[insert goal here]”. Which makes sense. Life isn’t what our high school mindset thought it would be and that’s okay. It never is, and maybe we have to drink our troubles away to forget how everything isn’t working out for us at the moment but that’s okay–well, at least for now. It just needs time and patience and it’ll be fine. It may not be what we expected but it’ll be beautiful anyway. Plus, until then we can always chat over coffee when we run into each other. If there’s one comfort, it’s familiarity in the changing world of life after college. And it’s great to be with familiar people, dancing the night away so we can relax from our worries for just a little bit.

And I guess even as I scour for jobs still and edit my book (last edits I swear! Then to query agents), I have it a bit better than others. After all, I got my best freak friend (That doesn’t sound nearly as endearing as it is) that’s a constant amongst all the other people who come and go like the tide.

Now then, since this is titled “old friends AND coffee” I guess I should mention coffee a bit. Of course, I just mentioned coffee because most of my old friend’s always want to get coffee! I guess that’s because coffee dates are the thing to do in your twenty’s (and beyond). Anyway, here’s some last minute wisdom! When in doubt, ditch the phone talks for a nice heart to heart over coffee. Good company and a soothing drink are sometimes exactly what you need.

That’s all for now. Thanks for sticking with this rant and I hope you’re having a lovely morning/afternoon/evening whenever and wherever you are!

Don’t forget to seek out adventure!