For most of my life, I’ve cared for beings with teeth sharper than my own boundaries.
Tigers. Lions. Bears. Wolves.
Creatures who demanded presence, patience, and power—but never in words.
I learned to read their breath. Their pacing. The flick of an ear before a shift in mood.
They taught me about stillness before they taught me about strength.
And for decades, I poured myself into that care.
I stayed for the animals.
Not the job.
Not the place.
Not even the people, if I’m honest.
It was the animals who held me steady when the world pulled me thin.
It was a tiger’s low rumble that grounded me when I forgot my own breath.
And it was the knowing in their eyes—their unshakable spirit—that reminded me how to return to mine.
Over time, I noticed something deeper:
Caretaking isn’t just what you give outward.
It’s also the quiet, sacred tending of your own wild soul.
There’s a point when giving becomes surviving.
And a deeper point where surviving transforms into remembering.
Not because of grief.
Not because of loss.
But because every spirit I have loved—human or animal—continues to move with me, teaching me how to live even fuller.
I’m learning that caretaking isn’t just for the animals.
It’s for me, too.
It’s for the mornings when I listen to the wind and remember the chuff of a tiger.
It’s for the evenings when the sunset feels like an old friend resting beside me.
It’s for the unseen thread that connects all living things—still vibrant, still speaking, still wild.
This post isn’t a goodbye.
It’s a pawprint on the path forward.
And maybe one day, when the time is right,
I’ll walk barefoot into a new wildness again—no cages, no boundaries, no need to explain.
Just me.
And the wind.
And the silent echoes of every life that loved me back.
🐾 Reflection Invitation:
What part of you is quietly asking for care today?
What spirit moves beside you when you slow down enough to listen?
🌿 In Closing:
The lessons walk beside us still.
We only have to listen.