1. When Everything Kept Moving
There’s a strange kind of grief that happens when the world doesn’t pause for you.
When you’re expected to answer emails, pay bills, and smile at strangers—
even though something inside you has stopped.
In May, I lost my brother.
By July, I had surgery.
And somewhere in between, the days blurred together into something too quiet to carry alone.
2. The Night Galaxy Arrived
Galaxy didn’t stroll into my life—she was handed to me in a plastic carrier, like something fragile no one quite knew what to do with.
By then, I was already carrying too much.
I opened the carrier, and she bolted under the couch. I let her be and stayed in my room, listening to the silence.
Five hours later, after the sun had gone down, she finally crept out.
Sargent, my dog, barked—startled by her sudden presence.
I stepped between them and said, “She’s staying.”
That’s when she began to trust me.
I named her Galaxy because of the white scattered through her fur—stars refusing to disappear into the dark.
She didn’t bring light.
She was the light.
3. Life in the Quiet
I didn’t know she was pregnant until July 10, after my surgery.
She never left my side during recovery.
Then on July 22, at 10 a.m., Galaxy went into labor—in my lap.
Most cats wait until night and hide from humans. But Galaxy chose me.
She moved to the birthing box I made for her and brought five new lives into the world:
- A white boy
- Another white boy
- A girl with the faintest fleck on her head
- A boy with two bold patches
- A grey girl with a perfect heart on her belly
They didn’t open their eyes. They didn’t even mew.
But they filled the room with something I hadn’t felt in a while: hope.
When my grandmother passed away on August 13, those kittens were still with me.
They stayed through the fall. Through the holidays. Through the grief.
One left in September. The others didn’t go until January and February of the next year.
Galaxy and the kittens gave me purpose.
They reminded me to keep going.
To feed, to clean, to love—when it would’ve been easier to stop trying.
4. What Galaxy Taught Me
Galaxy didn’t try to fix my grief.
She didn’t ask me to move on.
She just stayed.
She sat beside me through the pain.
She gave birth in my lap.
She trusted me—even when I didn’t trust myself.
And when the kittens were ready to go, she let them.
Not because she stopped loving them,
but because she knew love doesn’t always mean holding on.
Galaxy is the only one who stayed.
She stayed through the endings.
She stayed through the letting go.
She stayed through the slow, quiet healing.
What saves you doesn’t always stay forever.
But sometimes, it does.
And Galaxy did.
5. A Letter to You
If you’re reading this, maybe the world didn’t pause for you either.
Maybe you’ve lost something you can’t explain.
Maybe you’re carrying grief that doesn’t have a name yet.
I don’t have answers.
But I know this: you’re not alone.
Galaxy didn’t rescue me.
She just stayed.
Sometimes, that’s enough.
If the world won’t stop spinning long enough for you to catch up—
take one moment.
Place your hand over your heart.
Breathe.
And remember: something or someone out there will stay.
Even if just for a little while.
🌙 Reflect With Me
- Who—or what—has stayed with you when the rest of the world moved on?
- What quiet, ordinary thing brought you comfort when you didn’t expect it?
- If you could speak to the part of yourself that’s still healing… what would you say?
You’re welcome to share in the comments—or not.
This space is here whether you’re ready to talk or just need someone to sit beside you in the dark.
This is why I started The World Won’t Pause—
not to make sense of everything, but to hold space for the things that don’t make sense yet.
To write in the quiet.
To stay when the world keeps moving.
With you,
Selena and Galaxy
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