A Love Letter to a Very Good Girl
Some love stories don’t end with fireworks.
They end quietly.
In a warm room.
With a full belly.
And a heart breaking in the most devoted way possible.
This is one of those stories.
For 16 years, Coco wasn’t “just a cat.”
She was family.
She was presence.
She was the calm body next to mine when my nervous system was on fire and the world felt unsafe.
She slept beside me through sleepless nights, betrayal trauma, divorce, and rock bottom. When everything else collapsed, she stayed. No words. No demands. Just warmth, breath, and quiet loyalty.
That kind of love doesn’t shout.
It doesn’t perform.
It just… stays.
When Love Turns Into a Decision
There comes a moment no one prepares you for — the moment when love asks you to decide something impossible.
Coco grew old.
Disoriented.
Tired in ways sleep could no longer fix.
She slept more than she was awake.
She forgot where she was.
Her body no longer cooperated with the life she once knew.
And loving her meant facing the question we avoid because it hurts too much to ask:
Where is the line between holding on… and letting go?
Mercy is not a clean concept.
It’s heavy.
It doubts itself.
It comes with guilt, fear, and a thousand “what ifs.”
But animals don’t romanticize suffering.
Humans do.
Animals don’t want meaning.
They want comfort.
Choosing mercy doesn’t come from coldness.
It comes from paying attention.
Family, Grief, and Doing It Together
We’ve had Coco since 2010.
My youngest was five.
My eldest was six.
She grew up with them.
She raised them too, in her own quiet way.
One tried to rescue her — letting her sleep in his bed, hoping love alone could fix what age had taken. The other booked the appointment, carrying responsibility far heavier than his years.
And the night before… the boys went into the backyard together.
In the dark.
With shovels.
With care.
They read the law.
Measured the depth.
Helped each other dig for almost two hours — not because they had to, but because love deserves dignity.
Inside, I cooked lasagna in a warm kitchen.
And Coco slept on my bed, belly full, peaceful.
Family doesn’t always look loud or dramatic.
Sometimes it looks like this.
The Hurt of Mercy
There’s a part of grief no one talks about.
Relief.
Relief that the suffering will stop.
Relief that the constant vigilance will end.
Relief that you won’t wake up bracing for what you might find.
And then guilt for feeling that relief.
Grief is layered.
Contradictory.
Messy.
You can be devastated and relieved at the same time.
That doesn’t mean you loved less.
It means you carried more than anyone saw.
Grief isn’t a straight line.
It’s muscle memory.
It’s reaching for warmth that isn’t there.
It’s a house that suddenly feels too quiet.
The quiet isn’t empty.
It’s full of memory.
What Coco Taught Me
Coco didn’t teach me how to be strong.
She taught me how to stay.
Stay when things are uncomfortable.
Stay when nothing can be fixed.
Stay without needing answers.
She showed me what unconditional presence looks like — and that kind of love leaves a responsibility behind.
To bring that gentleness forward.
To my children.
To myself.
To the parts of me still healing.
If she could sit beside me through the worst nights of my life, I can sit with myself through this one.
Love doesn’t disappear when someone leaves.
It changes shape.
If You’re Grieving
If you’re reading this while grieving — a pet, a person, a version of your life that’s gone — hear this:
You are not weak for hurting.
You are not wrong for choosing mercy.
You are not broken for missing what once kept you alive.
Grief is not failure.
It’s proof that love lived here.
Stay.
Breathe.
Let love hurt — and let it carry you forward anyway.
🐾🤍
This story continues in Episode 51 of the Level Up Your Selfie podcast:
“Coco, in Chanel — The Weight of Mercy.”
If this resonated, follow the podcast and explore more reflections, storytelling, and healing at by follow the Level Up Your Selfie Podcast
As Always Extra RainbOH!w Sparkles & Good Vibes OH!nly ✨🦄💦🌈
/ Angelina Mi Lajki
