Karen’s lore
When Karen first adopted me, I was a complete mess. Not that I’d ever admit that to anyone, because obviously my worth was tied to my perfection, performance, and productivity.
I was 26. I was fighting for my life, my whole heart—my children—in a bloody custody court battle that would leave most people so wounded they wouldn’t dare rise again to fight another day. With scraped knees, black eyes, and a broken heart, I charged forward. But I didn’t just handle self-representation in a terribly scary courtroom while facing a monstrous ex; I also worked full-time and went to school at night. Not to mention, I was in so much pain from my mind-numbing, boring bank job that I took matters into my own hands and started a business on my lunch break.
I was a fighter. I ended each day bloody and bruised, more exhausted than the last. But I was willing to succeed, to win, to move forward—no matter the cost. I would have rather died than give up. I wouldn’t let the criticism I faced win, or the circumstances take me down, or the odds stand in my way.
A co-worker showed me a photo of Karen mid-war, and I had a visceral reaction to her beauty. Her long, soft gray fur, big green eyes, round belly. She’d found this lovely beast wandering the neighborhood and had done her very best to find its owner. No one claimed her, so I did. I picked up Karen in a small-town park and ride, and my life was forever changed.
Karen was named Karen for the exact reasons you think—she always wanted to speak to the manager. She meowed more than any cat you know, demanding fresh food and running water. If she wanted to go outside, you would know it. Her meow was loud, screechy, and unattractive—like a terrible rooster waking you at dawn while you have a hangover. It’s truly remarkable, the decibels she could reach to command her will. Much like your neighborhood Karen, sometimes you just wanted her to shut up.
Karen had very particular taste. She was above a water bowl; instead, she demanded fresh running water from the sink or tub. Eventually, I upgraded her to a carbon-filtered water fountain to avoid her ear-piercing, fresh-water meow demands.
You couldn’t tell Karen what to do. She didn’t care what you said—she was going outside if she so pleased. She would scratch the door, meow, or even run the moment you cracked it. She was an outdoor cat, through and through.
Karen was a tough old broad. Imagine your favorite white trash, chain-smoking, overweight aunt screaming “Dilly Dilly!” at the end of the local racetrack—she was kind enough to her kin but mean as hell should you cross her.
I lived in a two-bedroom simple spot above my landlord’s garage in the backwoods of Vermont, the land of Noah Kahan. I once opened my apartment door at 6 a.m., only one eye open, half asleep, taking out the trash my garbage ex didn’t take care of, just to be met toe-to-toe with a black bear.
Karen, screaming past me with the flair of a frizzy gray Pikachu bolted into the bear with such ferocity that both the bear and I left the porch in opposite directions. I’m not lying when I say Karen beat that bear up with the efficiency of your favorite karaoke-night bartender.
She moved with me to Maine, the first state I chose to call home for myself after winning the court battle, graduating college, and ditching that dreary job. We saw the ocean together, but what we really saw was me taking charge of my life. It was me deciding that despite my bad hand in emotionally stunted parents, getting pregnant at nineteen, and divorcing my high-school douchebag, I was worth creating a life I loved.
That’s the beautiful thing about life: we actually do get to design it. Karen understood better than anyone what a second chance at creating a good life was like.
She watched me let go of that swill of an ex boyfriend and choose to live in my very own oasis. We settled down together in a cheerful sunny little nook of a two-bedroom apartment in Brunswick, Maine. It was all white, a blank canvas. We filled it with plants and colorful paintings and befriended our neighbors. It was a safe neighborhood, and, to the chagrin of those who cared about me, I left the door open for Karen to come and go as she pleased. I’d leave for work, the front door open all day, happy knowing Karen was enjoying herself.
While I was off working my dream job as a wedding planner at an oceanside inn, Karen roamed the neighborhood. The neighbors knew her better than they knew me. People found Karen in their hammock. They found her on their porch, in their garage, and once on their kitchen table.
I like to think Karen knew who was lonely. She introduced me to an elderly neighbor I’ll call A. A was very mad Karen came through her cat door, sat on her table, and harassed her cats, who actually lived there. But A loved cats and had a long history of caring for strays.
A found me, learning who I was through the grapevine as Karen’s mom. My first impression of A was to be angry with her. She had a cat door, did she really think other animals wouldn’t use it? She fed Karen. Karen was already sixteen pounds; did she really think Karen was the type to say no? I was defensive when A gave me the riot act for how Karen and I lived.
But I came to have coffee with A, who was suffering from a chronic illness, whose mother was one of the first pilots in the Second World War, and who knew how to comb out Karen’s rat’s nest of long fur. She knew Karen liked to be carried like a baby and would walk her back home, right through the open front door, when I was busy at work.
Karen brought me to people who needed a listening ear, who needed a friend in a very lonely world. Karen always knew who needed her.
When I took my first solo trip to Europe it was an expression of my gratitude for climbing out of poverty, a trip that would confront my desperation to be constantly busy and overstimulated and highlight my overtired nervous system, Karen was there when I packed my suitcase. She was there when I got off the train to come home. She saw me every step of the way.
Karen was there when I began to hit my yoga mat nightly, sitting on the end watching me unfold into the person I am today. She was on the mat where I discovered my tension, trauma, and stored unprocessed emotions. She was there when I learned to untie my value from my productivity, that I didn’t have to earn rest, and that it’s safe to feel my feelings. She was there as I spiraled upward into a healthier, happier, more vibrant version of myself; a far cry from the disasscoiated chronically busy fighter she first met.
Karen watched me reunite with my true love, get married, and put a deposit on a farm. She was there as life became beautiful, and instead of waking up with a broken heart, I woke up smiling wanting for another day of sun.
It’s a tragic thing to watch our furry companions age. Karen lived to be seventeen. She died peacefully, on a heated tile floor (her favorite), with the sounds of her loved ones around her. I truly believe she waited to see me heal first, to arrive safely into a reality that serves me well. An angel I had the privilege of sharing an apartment with for eight years. She left as the clock struck 11:11, a great portal for new beginnings, as numerology would say.
I laid Karen to rest in a nest of white birch grove, on top of the mountain overlooking the town she came to me from.
I’m so sad that she’ll never get to see the farm, explore the barns, and greet our future guests with her fury of commanding meows. I’ll walk the property building a life she would have loved to see me live, and I’ll always keep a door open for her.
If you’re ready to find healing on the mat too, then it’s time you join one of my upcoming retreats. Come heal with me, and find your own upward spiral.