On Loving What We Cannot Save

My dear mermaid darlings,

There is a little feral cat who has lived on my land since she was born. She has always been small, constantly unwell in one way or another, invariably just a little behind the others. I had her spayed when I could, I make warm places for her when the cold arrives, I leave food and water each day, and still—she seems to improve only to slip back again.

Lately, she has begun sleeping in one of the beds I made when the temperatures dropped. I noticed her there one morning and felt both relief and sorrow at once. Relief that she had chosen warmth. Sorrow that I could not do more.

I cannot touch her. I cannot carry her inside. I cannot explain to her that I am trying.

And that is the part that aches.

There are moments when care meets a boundary, and no amount of love can push past it. I think many of us know this feeling, though we don’t often speak of it. We are taught, quietly and persistently, that love should fix, heal, rescue, and resolve. When it does not, we assume we have failed.

But I am beginning to understand something different.

Some beings—animal or human—can only receive help up to a certain threshold. Beyond that, they retreat, not out of stubbornness, but out of capacity. Their nervous systems, their bodies, their histories will not allow more. To push past that limit is not kindness. It is control dressed as care.

I have learned that tending does not always lead to recovery. Sometimes it leads only to less suffering. And that, too, matters.

This little cat may never thrive, she may ever be fragile, and she may always remain on the edge of things. Still, her life is gentler than it would have been without warmth, food, shelter, and a quiet regard. That is something real, not nothing.

There is a humility required here, one I am still learning. It is the humility of walking beside rather than carrying, of offering without insisting, of loving without possession. It asks us to loosen our grip on outcomes and attend instead to presence.

I find myself thinking that mercy is not always dramatic. Often it looks like a bed placed out of the wind. A bowl filled again. A watchful eye. A heart that does not turn away simply because it cannot finish the journey for another.

We live in a world that praises saving. We speak far less of accompanying. And yet accompaniment may be the truer kindness.

If I am learning anything through her, it is this: I am allowed to love without being able to save. I am allowed to tend without being in charge of how the story ends. I am allowed to offer care that stops where consent and capacity begin.

That feels important. It feels honest. And, in its own quiet way, it feels complete.

So tonight, I leave the bed where it is. I fill the bowls again. I notice her resting, breathing, warm enough for now. And I let that be sufficient.

Sometimes, love does not carry us all the way across.

Sometimes, it simply walks with us as far as we are able to go.

Most affably yours till my next enchanting swim, LR