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Tag: emotional animal stories for adults

  • The Ladybug Who Led the Parade

    The Ladybug Who Led the Parade

    Hi, I’m Lily the Ladybug. Six spots, two wings, and one very unexpected promotion: Parade Leader. I didn’t ask for it. One minute I was crawling on a dandelion, the next, a gust of wind and a misunderstanding put me at the front of the Garden Day March. Everyone followed. So I kept walking.

    Here are my 3 ladybug-tested, windblown-but-wise rules for leading (and living) well :

    1. Start Before You Feel Ready

    I didn’t have a plan, or even a clue why the caterpillars lined up behind me. But standing still wasn’t an option, so I walked. The secret? Most leaders aren’t ready. They just take a step, and somehow, that step becomes direction.

    2. Look Down Sometimes

    Leaders are told to “look ahead.” But if you don’t check your footing, you’ll trip over a twig and lose your dignity in front of 400 ants. Stay aware. Stay grounded. Vision is good, so is watching where you step.

    3. Share the Spotlight (It Gets Hot)

    It’s not your parade. You’re just lucky to be in it. Let the bees dance. Let the moths shine. Let the shy roly-polies roll through the confetti like they matter, because they do. Leadership isn’t being seen. It’s making space for others to be seen too.

    Final Thought from Lily

    I didn’t set out to lead. I set out to move with purpose, and others noticed. Sometimes, leadership isn’t loud. It’s small, steady, and covered in spots.

    Because influence? It’s not about walking in front. It’s about walking with, and knowing when to step aside and cheer.

  • Rosie the Rabbit Knows Routine – How Daily Care Helped Me Hold Onto Myself

    Rosie the Rabbit Knows Routine – How Daily Care Helped Me Hold Onto Myself

    I forgot the name of the street I’ve lived on for 14 years last Tuesday. It vanished, like mist, just like that, one moment, everything gone. It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last.

    The doctors use words like “early cognitive decline.”
    I use words like “slipping.”

    But every morning at 6:30 a.m., Rosie reminds me who I am.

    The Rhythm of a Rabbit

    Rosie is a lop-eared rabbit with a lopsided hop and a deep love for kale. She’s been with me for five years now. Longer than I can remember without checking the notes my daughter taped to the fridge.

    She thumps her back foot when I’m late. Stands on her hind legs when I walk into the kitchen. And every morning, I fill her bowl with pellets and greens, exactly the way she likes it.

    She doesn’t care that I sometimes forget where I put the keys. She doesn’t ask if I remember her birthday. All she asks is that I show up. Same time. Same place. Same bowl.

    Anchored by Habit

    Some days, my memories feel like leaves in the wind, close enough to see, but too far to grasp. I lose the thread of a story mid-sentence. I stand in a room and forget why I’m there.

    But Rosie… Rosie is a thread I can hold onto.

    When I wake up confused about what day it is, I hear the soft rustle of her paws. When I lose track of time, her hunger keeps time for me. Her needs are simple, but their simplicity saves me.

    When Routine Becomes Connection

    Feeding Rosie isn’t just a task, it’s a tether. I talk to her while I scoop the pellets. I narrate my steps aloud. “Kale. Rinse. Dry.” She doesn’t answer, but she listens. Somehow, in her quiet, watchful way, she makes space for the pieces of me that feel scattered.

    My daughter says Rosie keeps me sharp. I think Rosie keeps me human.

    She reminds me of things I haven’t written down:
    The morning light falls differently in winter.
    That love doesn’t need to be remembered to be felt.
    That being known, really known, can look like a rabbit waiting at a food bowl.

    A Gentle Kind of Remembering

    I still forget names. I still lose the thread. But every morning, Rosie is there. Expectant. Patient. Constant.

    And in that small act of feeding her, of showing up, I remember something bigger than names or addresses. I remember that I’m still needed. Still connected. Still here.

    Some days, that’s more than enough. Some days, that’s everything.