I didn't mean to adopt myself in cat form. That wasn't the plan.

The plan was a kitten. Something small and fluffy and uncomplicated, the kind of cat you see on Instagram sitting peacefully in a sunbeam, maybe wearing a tiny bow tie, definitely not knocking over everything it comes in contact with. I had done research. I had read articles. I had a list of questions to ask the shelter staff about temperament and litterbox habits and whether or not this particular kitten would judge me for eating cereal for dinner three nights in a row.

I was prepared.

What I was not prepared for was Mabel.

It started with Jack and Becky finally saying yes.

I'd been asking for months—casually at first, then less casually, then with the kind of desperate energy that made Becky pat my hand and say, "Honey, we're not saying no, we're saying not yet." Which, in my experience, is what adults say when they mean no but don't want to deal with your feelings about it.

But then last Tuesday, Jack stopped by to check on a leak in my bathroom (not my fault, the pipe was already old, I only made it slightly worse by hanging a heavy towel rack on the wall above it without checking for studs first), and while he was under my sink doing whatever magical things landlords do with wrenches, he said, "Becky and I talked. You can get a cat."

I dropped my coffee mug.

Not dramatically, just—my hands forgot they were holding something. Which happens. Frequently. The mug didn't break, just bounced off my foot and rolled under the kitchen table, trailing coffee across the floor like a tiny caffeinated crime scene.

"Really?" I asked, already crawling under the table to retrieve the mug. "You're sure? Because I know the lease said no pets and I don't want to be difficult and if it's going to be a problem with insurance or something I totally understand—"

"Rena." Jack's voice was patient. He's known me long enough now to know that I will talk myself out of good news if given half a chance. "Get the cat."

I may have cried a little. Under the table. Holding a coffee-stained mug. Jack pretended not to notice, which is the kindest thing anyone can do when I'm having emotions in inappropriate locations.

The shelter was called Hope's Haven, which felt almost too on-the-nose for my life right now, but I tried not to read into it. I walked in with my carefully prepared list of questions and my heart set on a kitten—something young enough that we could grow together, learn together, figure out this whole "being alive and not completely terrified" thing together.

The woman at the front desk was named Nora, according to her nametag, and she had the kind of calm, competent energy that made me immediately nervous. Calm, competent people make me aware of how not-calm and not-competent I am.

"First-time cat owner?" she asked, not unkindly.

"Is it that obvious?"

She smiled. "You're clutching that paper like it contains nuclear launch codes."

I looked down at my list of questions, now slightly crumpled from my grip. "I just want to do this right. I've wanted a cat for... a really long time." Since I was about eight, actually, but Mother said cats were unpredictable and we didn't need unpredictable in a house that ran on schedules and silence.

Nora led me back to the cat room, and I was ready. I was going to be logical about this. Methodical. I was going to evaluate each kitten based on my carefully researched criteria and make an informed decision like a functional adult.

And then I saw her.

She was in the bottom corner cage, pressed against the back wall like she was trying to disappear into it. Not a kitten—definitely not a kitten. A full-grown cat, mostly gray with patches of white on her chest and paws, like someone had started painting her and gotten distracted. Her eyes were huge and green and absolutely terrified.

"That's Mabel," Nora said, following my gaze. "She's been here about four months."

"Four months?" The kitten room was right next door. I could hear them mewing. I should have been walking toward them. I wasn't walking toward them. "Why so long?"

Nora's expression did something complicated. "She's three years old, and she has some... anxiety issues. No one wants adult cats with anxiety. Everyone wants kittens."

No one wants adult cats with anxiety.

The sentence hit me somewhere in the chest and just stayed there, throbbing.

I stared at Mabel. Mabel stared at me—or rather, stared at the wall next to me, because making direct eye contact was apparently too much. I understood that. Some days eye contact feels like too much for me too.

"Can I meet her?"

Nora looked surprised. "You wanted a kitten."

"I know." I didn't know why I was doing this. I had a plan. The plan was kittens. "Can I meet her anyway?"

Nora brought Mabel into a small visitation room and set her carrier on the table. Mabel did not come out of the carrier. She pressed herself into the back corner of it and made herself as small as possible, which was impressive given that she wasn't a small cat to begin with.

"She was surrendered by her previous owner," Nora explained quietly, like she didn't want Mabel to hear. "Apparently she was 'too nervous' and 'knocked things over too much.' The owner said she was 'more trouble than she was worth.'"

More trouble than she was worth.

I thought about my mother's voice. Where is your mind, Rena? Pay attention. You're always in la-la land. You're always breaking things. You're always—

"I'll take her," I said.

Nora blinked. "You haven't even petted her yet."

"I know." I was looking at Mabel, who was looking at nothing, who was trying so hard to be invisible that it made my heart crack right down the middle. "I'll take her."

"She might not adjust well. She might hide for weeks. She might never be a lap cat. She might—"

"I know," I said again. "I'll take her."

Nora was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled, and it was different from before—warmer, realer. "I think you two might be good for each other."

I filled out the paperwork with shaking hands and only misspelled my own address twice.[^1]

The first week was hard.

I don't mean hard like "adjusting to a new routine" hard. I mean hard like "I have made a terrible mistake and this creature hates me and I've ruined both our lives" hard.

Mabel went under my bed the moment I let her out of the carrier and she did not come out. For anything. I put food and water near the bed. I put a litterbox in the corner of my bedroom because the internet said to keep everything close at first. I talked to her in soft, gentle tones. I lay on my stomach on the floor and tried to see her in the darkness under the bed frame.

She was there. I could see her eyes glowing in the dark, watching me. Not trusting me. Not coming out.

"That's okay," I told her. "I get it. I really do."

I wasn't just saying that. I understood what it was like to be terrified of a world that had already proven it could hurt you. I understood pressing yourself into corners, making yourself small, hoping that if you were quiet enough and invisible enough, nothing bad could happen.

By day three, I started worrying that I'd done something wrong. Maybe I shouldn't have adopted an adult cat with anxiety. Maybe I wasn't equipped for this. Maybe Nora was right and Mabel would never adjust, never trust me, never—

Romans 8:1. There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus.

I said it out loud, lying on my bedroom floor at 11 PM, my face inches from the gap under my bed. Mabel's eyes blinked at me in the darkness.

"No condemnation," I told her. "Not for you, not for me. Not for being scared. Not for needing time. We're allowed to take time. We're allowed to be scared. That's not a sin, it's just... being alive."

Mabel did not respond. But she also didn't press herself further into the corner, which I decided to count as progress.

Jennifer came over on day four, armed with cat toys and unsolicited advice.

"Have you tried treats?" she asked, shaking a bag of something that smelled like fish and regret.

"Yes."

"Catnip?"

"Yes."

"Playing hard to get? Ignoring her so she comes to you?"

"Jennifer, she's under the bed. She doesn't know if I'm ignoring her or not."

Jennifer peered under the bed. Mabel's eyes glowed. Jennifer scrambled backward. "Okay, that's actually kind of creepy."

"She's not creepy, she's scared." I was surprised by how defensive I felt. "She's been through a lot. Her old owner said she was too much trouble. Can you imagine? Being told you're too much trouble just for being nervous and knocking things over?"

Jennifer looked at me for a long moment. Then her face did that thing where she's trying not to say something obvious.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said, in the voice that meant everything. "I just think it's interesting that you adopted a cat who's anxious and clumsy and was told she was too much trouble."

"It's not—I didn't—" I stopped. "Okay. Fine. Maybe I see some parallels."

"Some parallels." Jennifer's voice was gentle, not mocking. "Rena. You adopted yourself in cat form."

"I adopted a cat who needed a home."

"Uh-huh. A cat who's scared of the world and knocks things over and hides when she's overwhelmed?"

"Stop making it weird."

But Jennifer was smiling, and she hugged me before she left, and she said, "You're going to be so good for each other," and I didn't know if I believed her but I wanted to.

By day five, I had developed a routine.

Every night, after I closed up The Hot Mess and came upstairs, I would change into my pajamas, make a cup of chamomile tea (because coffee after 8 PM is a choice I've learned to regret), and lie down on the floor next to my bed. And I would talk.

I told Mabel about my day. About the customers who came in—the regulars who were starting to learn my name, the new people who looked surprised that "The Hot Mess" wasn't ironic. I told her about Betsy, my espresso machine, and how she'd leaked again but just a little, and Todd was coming tomorrow to look at her. I told her about the customer who'd ordered a cappuccino and then started crying, and I didn't know why but I didn't ask, I just made the cappuccino extra carefully and handed it to her with a napkin and she smiled at me like I'd done something meaningful when really I'd just made coffee.

"Is that okay?" I asked Mabel, my face pressed against the cold floor, my voice a whisper. "That I didn't ask? I think that's okay. Sometimes people just need to feel things without explaining them. I think maybe that's what I'm doing with you. Just... letting you feel things. Without making you explain."

In the darkness under the bed, Mabel's eyes blinked.

She didn't come out. But she was listening. I could tell she was listening.

Day six. Mabel ate the food I left for her while I was at work. This was the first time she'd eaten more than a few bites. I stared at the empty bowl like it was a miracle, because maybe it was.

Day seven. I was lying on the floor doing my nightly talking, telling Mabel about how Jennifer had tried to help me update the shop's Instagram and I'd accidentally posted a blurry photo of my thumb to our three hundred followers, when I saw movement. A paw. Gray with white patches. Stretching out from under the bed. Not toward me—just out. Just... testing.

I held my breath.

The paw retreated.

But she'd done it. She'd reached out. That was something. That was everything.

Day eight.

2 AM.

I couldn't sleep. This wasn't unusual—my brain likes to replay every awkward thing I've ever said at 2 AM, and there's a lot of material to work with—but tonight was different. Tonight I wasn't anxious, exactly. I was just... awake. Thinking about Mabel. Wondering if she was awake too, under the bed, in the dark, listening to the sounds of the apartment settling.

I slid out of bed and lay down on the floor. The wood was cold against my cheek. I could see the darkness under the bed, and somewhere in that darkness, two gleaming eyes.

"Hey," I whispered. "Me again. I know it's late. Or early? I never know which one 2 AM counts as. The numbers are confusing. Like, technically it's morning, but it doesn't feel like morning. It feels like the middle of the night pretending to be something else."

The eyes blinked.

"I've been thinking about you a lot. About why you're scared. About who hurt you. About how long you've been trying to make yourself invisible so nothing bad can happen." I swallowed. "I used to do that too. Sometimes I still do. Make myself small. Stay quiet. Hope nobody notices me so nobody can tell me I'm doing everything wrong."

Silence. But the eyes were still there, still watching.

"The thing is," I said, "I don't think being scared is a character flaw. I think it's just... what happens when the world hasn't been safe. And I think—I hope—that safe can be learned. Eventually. In your own time. I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to be right here, every night, talking to you about my day, whether you come out or not. Because that's what I needed when I was the one hiding. Someone to just... be there. Without demanding anything."

I closed my eyes. My whole body was tired. I should get back in bed. I should—

Something touched my hand.

My eyes flew open.

A paw. Gray with white patches. Resting on my fingers. Just barely.

I didn't move. I didn't breathe.

And then—slowly, so slowly, like every inch was an act of courage—Mabel crawled out from under the bed. She paused at the edge, her body low to the ground, her eyes huge and frightened. Looking at me. Deciding.

Please, I thought. Please trust me. Please let me prove that I won't hurt you.

She crept forward. Touched her nose to my hand. Pulled back. Crept forward again.

And then she was in my lap.

All of her. This trembling, terrified, brave creature who had been hiding for a week, who had been told she was too much trouble, who had been given up on—she was in my lap, curled into a ball, shaking slightly but not leaving.

I held perfectly still. I was crying, which I hadn't realized until I felt the wetness on my cheeks. Silent tears, falling onto my pajama pants, probably onto Mabel's fur.

"I know," I whispered. "Me too. We're going to be okay."

I didn't know if I was talking to the cat or myself.

Probably both.

I didn't go back to bed that night. I sat on the floor with Mabel in my lap until the sun came up, and then I took a photo—me in my rumpled pajamas, eyes puffy from crying, Mabel looking like a furry disaster curled against my chest—and sent it to Jennifer.

Me: [photo]
Me: I adopted myself in cat form.

Three dots appeared immediately, even though it was 6:47 AM and Jennifer is not a morning person.

Jennifer: You really did.
Jennifer: I love her already.
Jennifer: I love YOU already.
Jennifer: Wait I mean I already loved you. You know what I mean.
Jennifer: ❤️🐱❤️

I laughed, and Mabel startled at the sound, and I whispered "sorry, sorry" and she settled back down, and I realized I was going to have to relearn how to exist in my own apartment. Quieter. Softer. More aware of another creature who was scared of sudden noises, just like me.

We were going to figure this out together.

It's been three weeks now.

Mabel still startles at loud sounds. She knocked over my water glass yesterday by jumping onto the counter and misjudging the distance, and for a split second she froze like she was waiting to be yelled at, and I had to sit down on the kitchen floor and tell her it was okay, it was just water, I knock things over all the time, we are both disasters and that's perfectly fine.

She sleeps on my bed now. Not curled up next to me—that would be too much closeness, too fast—but at the foot of the bed, one eye always slightly open, keeping watch. Making sure nothing bad sneaks up on us in the night. I understand that. I used to sleep that way too, back at my parents' house. Always listening for footsteps. Always waiting for something to go wrong.

She follows me around the apartment. Not closely—she keeps a respectful distance, maybe three feet behind—but she follows. When I'm in the kitchen, she's in the kitchen. When I'm on the couch, she's on the couch. When I'm lying on the floor having feelings about my life, she's lying nearby, having what I assume are also feelings about her life.

We're healing together. That's what I've realized.

Healing isn't linear. It isn't waking up one day and being fixed.[^2] It's showing up. Over and over. Lying on the floor outside the bed. Talking into the darkness. Waiting. Hoping. Being patient with yourself and the other scared creatures in your life.

It's learning that sometimes you rescue the thing that reflects you. And sometimes that's exactly what you both need.

I told Jennifer last week that I think God sent me Mabel.

She raised her eyebrows. "You think God specifically orchestrated you going to the shelter and finding one specific cat with anxiety issues?"

"I think..." I paused, trying to figure out how to say it. "I think maybe God knows what we need. Even when we don't. I went in there looking for a kitten. Something easy. Something uncomplicated. And instead I found Mabel. Who is neither of those things. But who is exactly right."

Jennifer was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think the unwanted ones often become the most loved. Because when someone chooses the difficult thing—the scared thing, the broken thing, the thing nobody else wanted—that's when love means the most."

I thought about myself. About being the weird homeschooled girl in jean skirts. About being the daughter who asked too many questions. About being the person who knocks things over and talks too much and doesn't know how to be normal.

And about Mabel. Who hid for a week. Who was labeled "too much trouble." Who is still learning to trust.

We were both the difficult choice.

And we were both worth choosing.

It's 10:47 PM and I'm sitting on my couch with a cup of tea, and Mabel is on the cushion next to me—not touching, but close. Closer than she would have been two weeks ago. Closer than she'll probably be tomorrow, because healing isn't linear and sometimes she still hides under the bed when the neighbors slam their door too loud.

But right now, she's here. Watching me write this. Occasionally licking her paw like she's pretending to be casual about the whole thing.

I reach over, slowly, and scratch behind her ear. She freezes for a second—always that freeze, that moment of deciding whether to run—and then she leans into it. Just a little. Just enough.[^3]

"We're going to be okay," I tell her.

She purrs. It's a small, rusty purr, like she's out of practice.

We both are.

But we're learning.

If you're reading this and you're the one hiding under the bed—metaphorically or literally—I want you to know something. You're not too much trouble. You're not too anxious or too broken or too difficult. You're just someone who learned to be scared because the world gave you reasons to be.

And maybe, if you're lucky, someone will lie on the floor outside your hiding place and talk to you about their day. And maybe, if you're brave, you'll reach out a paw.

It's the scariest thing you'll ever do.

It's also the first step toward home.

— Rena LeeAnn

[^1]: The shelter staff very kindly pretended not to notice when I wrote "The Hot Mess" in the space for my home address. I live above the coffee shop. It still counts. Kind of.

[^2]: I spent approximately four hours on day three Googling "cat hates me what do I do" and the internet was divided between "give it time" and "your cat has decided you are unworthy of love and will never recover." The internet is a lot.

[^3]: Mabel has since learned that ear scratches are acceptable but belly rubs are a TRAP and I will lose a hand if I try. I respect her boundaries. We are both works in progress.