NeuroDivine

I woke slowly this morning, not to alarms or aches, but to the gentle weight of love. Niamh, our white cat, had curled herself close to my chest—near enough to feel my heartbeat, wise enough to stay clear of the dialysis line. Her presence was soft, deliberate, like a prayer that knows where to land.

At my feet, Richard the tabby had claimed his usual post, radiating warmth like a furry hot water bottle. He doesn’t ask permission. He simply arrives, settles, and stays. Between them, I lay cocooned in feline grace, held in a quiet choreography of trust and knowing.

And in that stillness, a question rose unbidden: Do you ever feel so much love?

Not the loud kind. Not the kind that demands or dazzles. But the kind that arrives in the early morning hush, in the weight of two cats who know your rhythms, your vulnerabilities, your need for gentleness.

This is what mercy looks like at 6am. This is what love feels like when it doesn’t need to be earned.

When have you felt quietly held—by a pet, a person, or a moment? What did it teach you about love?