<p>‘Sometimes it takes a heartbreak to shake us awake and help us see we are worth so much more than we’re settling for.’ – Mandy Hale</p>.<p>This quote reminds me of a stray cat that once had its eyes firmly set on our morning milk packets. Each day became a race between us and the cat—if we were even slightly sluggish, the packets would be ripped open, milk strewn all over the floor, and the cat would feast with great satisfaction. What followed was an hour-long cleaning ordeal, which made mornings stressful and chaotic.</p>.<p>Friends and neighbours offered suggestions on how to outsmart the cat. One idea was to stuff onion and garlic peels inside the bag, but the cat simply ignored them and continued its feast. Next, we tried hanging the bag higher on the door, but somehow the cat managed to scratch them open, licking the dripping milk to its heart’s content.</p>.<p>My daughter suggested we simply feed the cat, but the rules of our housing society forbade feeding strays. So the struggle continued. Finally, we asked the milkman to ring the doorbell upon delivery. That small act worked—we managed to grab the packets before the cat could get to them. Our mornings were saved, though much to the cat’s visible frustration.</p>.<p>But victory didn’t feel sweet for long. Every morning thereafter, the cat sat outside our door, letting out heart-wrenching meows that tugged at our conscience. It waited there until noon, pouring its sorrow into the silence. We later learnt from neighbours that the cat had once been someone’s pet in our apartment complex. With its family gone, it had been left to fend for itself. What we saw as mischief was, in truth, its desperate attempt to survive.</p>.<p>Two weeks later, the meowing stopped. One evening, while strolling around the complex, I spotted the same cat—no longer begging, but hunting a rat with fierce determination. In that moment, I realised something profound. Our denial, though painful to watch, had forced the cat to find its strength. It had moved beyond its grief, shedding dependence and learning to stand on its own.</p>.<p>The experience left me with a deeper understanding: sometimes, denial is not cruelty but a quiet act of love. It withholds comfort just long enough for resilience to grow. The cat’s journey from helplessness to self-reliance mirrored what Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, the Swiss-American psychiatrist, once wrote: denial helps us to pace our feelings of grief. There is a grace in denial. It is nature’s way of letting in only as much as we can handle.</p>.<p>Life often places us in situations where immediate relief is withheld—whether through heartbreak, loss, or disappointment. In those moments, we may feel abandoned, just as the cat must have felt. Yet, when we endure, we often emerge stronger, wiser, and better equipped to face life’s uncertainties. Sometimes, what seems like denial is, in fact, life’s way of nudging us towards growth.</p>
<p>‘Sometimes it takes a heartbreak to shake us awake and help us see we are worth so much more than we’re settling for.’ – Mandy Hale</p>.<p>This quote reminds me of a stray cat that once had its eyes firmly set on our morning milk packets. Each day became a race between us and the cat—if we were even slightly sluggish, the packets would be ripped open, milk strewn all over the floor, and the cat would feast with great satisfaction. What followed was an hour-long cleaning ordeal, which made mornings stressful and chaotic.</p>.<p>Friends and neighbours offered suggestions on how to outsmart the cat. One idea was to stuff onion and garlic peels inside the bag, but the cat simply ignored them and continued its feast. Next, we tried hanging the bag higher on the door, but somehow the cat managed to scratch them open, licking the dripping milk to its heart’s content.</p>.<p>My daughter suggested we simply feed the cat, but the rules of our housing society forbade feeding strays. So the struggle continued. Finally, we asked the milkman to ring the doorbell upon delivery. That small act worked—we managed to grab the packets before the cat could get to them. Our mornings were saved, though much to the cat’s visible frustration.</p>.<p>But victory didn’t feel sweet for long. Every morning thereafter, the cat sat outside our door, letting out heart-wrenching meows that tugged at our conscience. It waited there until noon, pouring its sorrow into the silence. We later learnt from neighbours that the cat had once been someone’s pet in our apartment complex. With its family gone, it had been left to fend for itself. What we saw as mischief was, in truth, its desperate attempt to survive.</p>.<p>Two weeks later, the meowing stopped. One evening, while strolling around the complex, I spotted the same cat—no longer begging, but hunting a rat with fierce determination. In that moment, I realised something profound. Our denial, though painful to watch, had forced the cat to find its strength. It had moved beyond its grief, shedding dependence and learning to stand on its own.</p>.<p>The experience left me with a deeper understanding: sometimes, denial is not cruelty but a quiet act of love. It withholds comfort just long enough for resilience to grow. The cat’s journey from helplessness to self-reliance mirrored what Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, the Swiss-American psychiatrist, once wrote: denial helps us to pace our feelings of grief. There is a grace in denial. It is nature’s way of letting in only as much as we can handle.</p>.<p>Life often places us in situations where immediate relief is withheld—whether through heartbreak, loss, or disappointment. In those moments, we may feel abandoned, just as the cat must have felt. Yet, when we endure, we often emerge stronger, wiser, and better equipped to face life’s uncertainties. Sometimes, what seems like denial is, in fact, life’s way of nudging us towards growth.</p>
