Writing hasn’t really been in the cards for me over the past week, so I decided to take a small break. But, writing is my outlet. My last post, ‘Alchemy of the Spirit: Transforming Anxiety and Depression through Ritual and Magic‘, explains how to cope with changing of the seasons and keeping seasonal depression and anxiety at bay. Well, that is something Ive been dealing with a little bit lately. While working, getting ready for the winter, health appointments, and the beautiful thing called life, sometimes it’s hard to manage when the season shifts us as well.
This season always stirs up memories — the good and the bad. And honestly? The bad ones sting. I’ve caught myself replaying old mistakes, the kind that make you cringe and keep you up at night. But I keep reminding myself of one of my favorite mottos, a Buddhist teaching: “Life is school — you never stop learning. Lessons will repeat themselves until they’re learned.”
Some people stay stuck, but so many of us do grow. With time comes wisdom, and every struggle, heartbreak, and messy chapter shifts how we see the world. Sometimes that growth means looking back and feeling guilt or shame for who we once were — our younger, more clueless selves — but even that is part of learning.
That quote always reminds me to give myself grace — because no one’s perfect. We’ve all had bad moments, and that’s just being human. Once you actually learn the lesson, it gets a little easier to figure out who you are and what you want from this lifetime.
So I try to make the most of the time I have. We all leave our mark here, even if it feels small. It still matters. It still exists.
Lately, I’ve been seeing death from a different angle — not just as something “natural” or “part of life,” but as something deeply personal. It started at the end of December 2024. I was in the shower, eyes closed, when out of nowhere I saw this ball of golden light. Then a voice said, “We all die.”
It wasn’t a dream. It was something I felt — through my whole body. After that, the anxiety attacks started. The worst one hit that same night, when it really sank in: I’m going to die. One day, so will everyone I love. Even the people I pass on the street, or the ones we see on TV and grow attached to.
It’s not just death itself — it’s the not existing anymore, the loss of every little thing that makes life what it is. That realization shook me to my core. But now, I think maybe it was my spirit guide preparing me — because this week, on Tuesday, October 28th, 2025, I faced a great loss.
To My Familiar
On Tuesday, October 28, 2025, my familiar crossed over to the spirit world.
Muss was my best friend for 14 years. I got him when I was 18, right before I turned 19. I am now 33. He came from a local family who had a litter, and at first, I was supposed to take his sister, Camo. But when I went to pick her up, Muss climbed right up my body and stayed there — like he’d already decided. He chose me. From that day on, we were inseparable.
Muss was the kind of soul you only meet once — gentle, steady, and endlessly knowing. To me, he was never “just a cat.” He was my lifeline, my anchor, the soft heartbeat that kept me tethered when my own faltered.
He always knew. When panic gripped me, he stayed. When sadness drowned me, he absorbed it all — his fur soaked in my tears, yet he never turned away. He held space for me in the quiet way only animals can.
His own journey wasn’t without pain. He battled urinary troubles most of his life, and once, he spent a week in an animal hospital across the border in Canada. I remember how empty the world felt without him. But Muss, ever resilient, recovered quickly. The day he began to heal, the light returned to his eyes — that unmistakable happiness only he could radiate.
Muss was always part of my magic. Whenever I laid out my tarot cards to learn or read, he would settle right on top of them, as if guarding the messages between the veils. When I tended to my plants, he’d sit quietly beside me, tail wrapped around his paws, watching with that knowing look only animals of the old soul kind have. During rituals, he was always there — close enough for me to feel his warmth and calm energy circling the space. He wasn’t just a companion; he was part of the practice, part of the energy, a steady pulse of love woven into every bit of my craft.
Muss loved the window — his silent perch between two worlds. He’d watch the wind move through the trees as if he longed to be part of it.
In 2020, his longing won. One morning, he slipped past my partner, at the time, and vanished. For nine long months, he wandered. And then, fate brought him back — to the very shelter where I worked. The moment I saw his name on the intake list, my heart stopped. That night, I unlocked the door, called out, “Muss!” and there it was — his distinct, familiar meow.
When I opened his kennel, he ran straight into my arms. His purr rumbled like thunder as he pressed his face against mine, refusing to let go. It was reunion and magic all at once — like two souls reuniting after lifetimes apart.
Years later, in 2023, he slipped away again after we moved into our new home. Two weeks passed before a neighbor found him, safely caught in a trap. After that, he stayed close, happy to explore the outdoors by my side, leash and all. I used to joke he loved the Tarzan life — wild at heart, but always tethered to me.
Tuesday morning began quietly, but something was wrong. Muss was vomiting bile, his eyes dull, his body tired. I called the vet right away, desperate for help, but the earliest appointment was a day away. They told me to call back if things got worse.
I watched him closely through the morning and afternoon — still sick, but steady. I tried to hold onto hope. Later, I drove an hour to my doctor’s appointment, only to learn it wasn’t even scheduled for that day. Some glitch in their system. A meaningless detour.
When I came home, I stopped in my office to check on him before heading out to care for other cats I’d promised to watch that week.
And there he was. Still. Silent. Gone.
In that moment, my world fell apart. My companion of 14 years — my familiar — had crossed over. The space he left behind felt infinite.
The next morning, I took him to be cremated, just as I’d always planned. It was the final act of love I could give him — to return his spirit to the elements, where he always belonged.
I’ve always loved the earth — its cycles, its roots, its quiet promise of return. But I’m not sure this house will be my forever home, and I couldn’t bear to leave Muss behind in its soil. So I chose to have him cremated, his spirit returned to the elements.
I ordered an urn necklace, a small vessel of silver and ash, so that wherever I go, a piece of him travels with me.
Muss was never just a cat. He was presence — intuition in fur and heartbeat. Whenever I longed for his comfort, he would appear, curling into me as if my thoughts had called him home.
It’s been only a day and a half, yet the air feels strange — thinner somehow. Life has shifted. A part of me left with him.
He was extraordinary, a soul woven from the same thread as mine. I know we’ll find each other again — when the stars align, and the veil thins once more.
Now, through meditation, I can see that my spirit guide was trying to prepare me. If everything had happened all at once — the realization, the loss, the moment of finding him — I don’t think I could’ve handled it. My spirit guide knew that.
I’ve worked five years as a vet tech. I’ve seen so many animals come and go, and I was often the one to carry their bodies after they passed. I thought I understood what it meant to say goodbye. Maybe that experience was meant to teach me — to help me witness, to understand, to be strong.
But it’s always different when it’s your own. When it’s your love.
Continuing My Journey
Taking a break from writing, from my business, and from crafting has actually been good for me. It’s only been two days since Muss passed, so I don’t know how long I’ll need, but I’m giving myself the space to just be.
I haven’t gone into my office yet — it’s where I found him, but I know that’s because it was where he felt most comfortable. That was his space. My altar is in there too, and I haven’t cast any circles since, but I will soon.
For Samhain, I’ll honor him. His photo will rest on my altar, a candle will burn, and I’ll leave out his favorite food and treats. He deserves that — a light to guide him and a meal to remind him he’s still loved.
But that connection I had with Muss… it doesn’t end. It shifts. His spirit is still close — in the warmth that brushes past when you light a candle, in the gentle flicker of a shadow when I’m pulling cards, in the moments I feel an unexpected calm during ritual. He’s there, still doing what he always did — protecting, grounding, loving.
The past three years have been an awakening — an energetic shift that changed the way I move through this world. The anger I once carried has dissolved into something gentler, quieter. I’ve learned that life is fleeting, delicate — a breath we should hold in reverence.
We never truly know when our time here will end, and because of that, every moment, every connection, becomes sacred.
I think often of those I’ve never met — souls enduring pain, children facing cruelty, hearts in need of love. I want to send compassion their way, to give freely what I have.
The small joys — sunlight filtering through leaves, laughter shared, a moment of peace — they shine far brighter than the little irritations that once dimmed my light.
We’ll never fully understand life — not completely, not every part of it. But what we can understand is that life is beautiful in its own way, even when it hurts. Every soul experiences things others never will, and that’s okay. It doesn’t make one life better or worse, and it doesn’t need to be met with judgment or negativity.
The truth is, the world needs more kindness — more people trying to stay positive even when everything feels chaotic. We’re here to learn, to adapt, to make this world a little softer, a little brighter, and a lot more loving while we’re still here.
Both great and small challenges shape us — they build resilience, the quiet strength that carries us forward. It’s far better to laugh over spilled milk than to drown in anger or regret.
Anger divides; it fractures not only the bond between souls, but the one within ourselves.
So, shift your energy. Even if the world around you doesn’t change, your spirit can. Your thoughts can soften, your heart can open.
When you let light in, the world begins to glow differently. You remember that you are capable — that love is the current that carries you through all things. Always love, never hate.
Blessed be,
“Karmic Chronicles” is a section where I am real, raw, and writing pieces of my life. A diary of a Green Witch if you will. The tone of “Karmic Chronicles” is personal with a non-professional voice as an outlet to connect with others.
