Frida was my first cat.

She was the friend who kept me home when home felt impossible. The one who nurtured me when I did not know how to nurture myself.

She passed away overnight. At home. I did not know she was sick. I keep turning that over in my mind — what I did not see, what I could not know.

The last three years have been intense. The kind of stress that rearranges your nervous system. The kind that tries to kill you quietly. I sometimes wonder if it was too much for her small body. It has certainly tried to take mine.

I adopted her in 2017. She was eight months old — curious, sovereign, already herself. We grew up together. Through loneliness. Through betrayal. Through rebuilding. When I was living alone, she kept me tethered to life. She saved me in ways that only the quiet presence of another breathing creature can.

Then our family grew large. More cats. More movement. More love.

The others are unsettled now. They know something has shifted. Animals always know. They are freaked out, but they are okay. We are all adjusting to the absence of her particular gravity.

Frida lived from 2017 to 2026.

She witnessed my exile and my becoming. She was there when I learned how to stay.

May she rest in peace and in power.

May her small, fierce life continue in the undercommons of all that survives.

May I honor her by continuing to live.