Some Stories Begin with Heartbreak
Mine began in January 2020, when I lost my mother. The world I knew, filled with warmth, laughter, and the constant comfort of her presence was suddenly gone. Silence settled in, the kind that echoes inside you.Just as grief took hold, something strange, beautiful, and beyond explanation happened. A small cat named Guddi walked into my life during the 13th-day ritual after my mother’s passing. She did not just walk in, she claimed my mother’s favorite chair and, with that, a permanent place in my life. From that moment on, nothing was the same again.
Losing My Mother – The End and a Beginning
It was a cold January morning when we said our final goodbyes. The 13-day rituals in our culture are meant to offer closure, but what they left me with was emptiness. I wandered through the house aimlessly, still expecting to hear her voice, still feeling her presence in every corner.
Grief does not just take the person you love,it takes away the version of you that existed with them. I was not just mourning my mother, I was mourning myself. I could not sleep, barely ate, and spent hours clutching the cushion that still carried her scent. No one tells you how heavy absence can be.
Guddi Arrives – The Moment She Sat in Mom’s Chair
It happened during the final prayers on the 13th day. A thin, quiet cat wandered in off the street. No one had seen her before. Without hesitation, she hopped onto my mom’s favorite chair, curled up, and closed her eyes. The room fell silent. That chair had always been hers. No one else ever sat there. And now, here was this cat, not just sitting, but resting as if she had come home.
That was the moment everything changed. Guddi was not just a cat. Her calm, confidence, and knowing stillness, mirrored my mother’s spirit. I do not believe in coincidences anymore.
Guddi had chosen us. Perhaps, my mother had chosen her.
The Pandemic – Fear and a Tragedy
Two months later, the pandemic struck and with it, ignorance and panic took the front seat. Rumors spread that cats and dogs were carriers of COVID. Overnight, strays became scapegoats.
One morning, I went out to feed the community cats in my building. Instead of meows, I found silence and the most horrifying sight of my life. Twenty-five cats had been poisoned. Some were already cold. Others twitched in pain. I broke. These were animals I fed, loved, named. Someone had done this silently, cruelly, and without remorse. But seven or eight had survived—weak, terrified, clinging to life.
My Home Becomes a Sanctuary
I acted on instinct. I brought every survivor into my home. I didn’t think about space, about rules, about what people would say. They needed safety. They needed me. Rooms became safe zones. Food and water bowls multiplied. My house turned into a shelter and strangely, it felt right. What began as an act of rescue became a source of healing. They gave me structure, purpose, love. I wasn’t alone anymore. Each cat had a personality. Some bold, some shy, some mischievous. They were not just animals. They were family. They were therapy. They saved me.
Building a Home for All of Us
As their numbers grew, my apartment couldn’t hold us anymore. So I found a new place, not just for me, but for us. A home with space, sunlight, and safety. I made it theirs: window grills for protection, shelves for climbing, quiet nooks for the old and unwell. Every bowl labeled, every chart updated.
This was not just a shelter, it was a home. A monument to everything we had survived.
A New Storm – Living With Multiple Sclerosis
In 2022, my body began to betray me, numbness, fatigue, blurred vision. The diagnosis: Multiple Sclerosis. I was no longer just a caregiver. I was a patient, too. I remember sitting on the hospital bed and thinking, “What happens to them if something happens to me?” But that fear did not break me. It made me adapt. I stopped taking in new rescues. I built systems, trained help, installed feeders. And the cats? They knew. On my worst days, they simply lay beside me. Silent. Steady. Loving.
Guddi, as always, never left my side.
Love, Loss, and 50 Miracles
This journey was not planned. I did not set out to care for 50 cats. But life had other plans and a small cat named Guddi led the way. Through death, cruelty, disease, I found healing in tiny paws, in shared silence, in sunlit nap piles. Love does not always come in human form. Sometimes, it walks in quietly, claims a chair, and saves your life.