How My Cats (and Community) Helped Me Heal
There was a time when connection felt impossible. Due to my disorders, I had lost friends. friends who couldn’t watch me hurt myself anymore, and I spent my evenings isolated in my apartment, drinking. There was also a year early on where social anxiety was so bad, I was practically agoraphobic, I only left my apartment for work and therapy. It wasn’t a life; it was survival on autopilot. I was lonely in a way that felt bone-deep, certain I’d driven away everyone who cared; a loneliness that went back to childhood.
When I was a kid, I was an only child, and friendships were hard for me. I often struggled to keep friends, especially within one particular group at school. During the day, I’d look for connection wherever I could find it. Sometimes even visiting my parents in their classrooms during their breaks, hoping just to feel included. A pleaser most of my life, I learned early that being quiet, good, and self-sufficient kept me safe, but it also kept me separate. I longed for connection. I used to dream about having an older brother, someone who could protect me, someone I could count on. Over time, that kind of loneliness became familiar. It shaped how I saw and approached relationships. So when recovery asked me to lean on others, to let people see the hard parts instead of the version of me that looked fine, put together, and functional, it felt daunting.
When I moved to St. Louis as an adult, I adopted my first cat, Callie. She was my companion through some of the hardest years of my life. I loved her deeply, but I also carry regrets. My eating disorder and drinking consumed me. I was distracted, absent, and often away for months at a time in treatment. She deserved more of me than I could give. When she got sick at the young age of eleven and eventually passed, I was left with guilt and loneliness I couldn’t stand. Losing her broke something in me. I was already on a downward spiral, but in fact, that loss triggered a full-blown relapse.
I waited years before I could bring myself to adopt again. The silence and stillness in the apartment were deafening. For a long time, I wasn’t ready. Losing Callie had left a hole I didn’t know how to fill, and I needed time to grieve and rebuild my life before I could open my heart again. But eventually, healing and recovery made space for new beginnings.
When Ella and Loki came into my life, I was finally in a place where I could show up differently. I was early in recovery, learning how to live in a new way. This time, I could be present. I could love them without the chaos, without disappearing. I gave them attention, affection, and care. I prioritized them in a way I couldn’t with Callie when I was sick.
They don’t care about my productivity, my body, or my eating. They just want me there, to feed them, to play, to sit beside them and cuddle. That simplicity has been healing in ways I didn’t expect. It’s helped me rebuild trust, consistency, responsibility, and gentleness, for them, and for myself.
When I was sick, I had very few friends. Again, I pushed people away by not being able — or willing — to accept their love and support. As I went through recovery, that began to change. Not only did I heal old relationships by owning my mistakes and making amends, but I also built new ones. I made friends in recovery, several through AA, and these connections have become some of the most meaningful in my life. I’ve learned to nurture these friendships, to prioritize them, to show up when asked. I can finally be the kind of friend others deserve, no longer lost in something so isolating and all-consuming. These relationships remind me that connection takes effort and honesty, but it’s also where life feels the most alive.
Dating is another story. I had a few relationships over the years, but I could never show up in ways that mattered, to give someone my time, attention, and support in a way that felt loving. The eating disorder often got in the way. I was too consumed with food rules, too distracted by my body to be present or intimate. Now, in my forties, I have no idea how to meet people. Recovery is my top priority, so dating is sometimes a second thought. But I also don’t want to be alone forever. Finding a partner at this stage of life — when so many people are already on their second marriages or raising kids — sometimes feels out of reach. And that reality can make the loneliness feel even heavier.
Recently, my parents adopted two seven-month-old kittens, Kaya and Koda. Watching them adjust to their new home — nervous but slowly finding safety in love — reminded me so much of recovery. Healing takes time. You can’t rush trust. But with patience and compassion, even the most fearful hearts learn that the world can be safe again.
Connection doesn’t always look like deep conversations or big gestures. Sometimes it looks like a cat curling up beside you while you read, or a friend who checks in just to say hi. Sometimes it’s knowing you can ask for help and not be met with judgment.
My cats and my community have taught me that healing happens in connection. In fact, connection is key. Recovery isn’t about doing it all alone. It’s about allowing others in, letting love soften the edges of old wounds, and believing you’re worthy of care, from yourself and from those who show up for you.
Every time I reach out, or let someone reach in, I take another step toward the life recovery promised: a life not just of survival, but of connection, comfort, and love.