May is Mental Health Awareness Month, a time to recognize the many ways healing can take shape. While conversations often focus on therapy, medication, or exercise, there’s another powerful source of support that deserves attention: connection. At care farms like Sanctuary One, the connection between animals, people, and the land becomes a quiet but profound form of therapy — one that meets people where they are. Sometimes healing arrives not in the form of big revelations, but in a small, insistent cat.
Now that I am middle-aged, I spend almost as much time reflecting upon, as I do looking forward to, my life. When I do reflect upon my younger days, I recognize I spent a lot of time trying to fulfill a persona, instead of being my genuine self. The persona I settled on is one that will be familiar to a lot of people — the tough guy.
“I’m not a cat guy,” is something I have said a lot. I had picked a side in the age-old debate of the best pet; dogs are undeniably superior. And they’re manly; cats are not. My little sister had a cat that I always gave her grief for. I had a promising young relationship or two fail because I didn’t wholeheartedly embrace my partner’s precious cat. But the tough guy persona was more important than companionship. Or, I thought it was.
Fast forward a few years with many life lessons learned and I found myself working at Sanctuary One at the beginning of 2025. This is where I met Tippy — the office cat and long-time animal ambassador at the farm.
Tippy had come to Sanctuary One back in 2016. She was the first animal to come to us through the Safe Haven program and quickly proved herself to be something special. She transitioned into a role as the Sanctuary’s feline ambassador and moved into the farm house to live out the rest of her days. By the time I joined the team, Tippy had been spreading her particular brand of chaos and affection for nearly a decade.
I made it clear to all of my coworkers that “I’m not a cat guy.” But Tippy didn’t get the message. Tippy demands a lot of attention. When you’re at your desk typing, she’ll climb right on your keyboard and rub her butt on your chin. I would sometimes sneak into the office in the hopes that she wouldn’t hear me, and I could get some more work done.
Then we learned Tippy had stomach cancer and only had one or two months left. Tippy’s hospice care overlapped with a period in the winter when I was often at my desk for long stretches. She started spending a lot of time on my desk seeking attention. And knowing she had little time left, I started reluctantly giving it to her. Before I knew it, she was laying on a blanket in my lap and taking her meals on my desk. She was starting to break me down.
As her body continued to decline, my appreciation and affection for her only increased. We shared many quiet afternoons alone in the office. I’d forgo bathroom breaks as long as I could so as not to disturb her napping. Her twice daily feedings quickly became several small meals throughout the day. I wanted to spoil her. But she kept losing weight, losing the fight to cancer.
Tippy’s euthanasia appointment was scheduled for a Friday in early April. And I was not ready to say goodbye. For her final two nights I stayed at the farm. I didn’t want her to be alone. We spent hours with her laying on my chest as I cried. I will always remember two things from those nights. The first is how incredibly small she had become. I wasn’t ready, but it was clear that she was. The second thing I’ll never forget is as I cried, she would rub the crown of her head on my cheeks, soaking up the tears.
It’s been a few weeks since we said goodbye. But yesterday as I walked through the office, I smelled her again. That familiar smell of wet cat food and litter that she rubbed on my face so many times. I might have imagined the smell. I don’t know. I didn’t go looking for the source. And I hope my coworkers don’t either. I’m still not ready to say goodbye.
The impact Tippy had on me in two short months is indescribable. I don’t know if I’ve necessarily become a “cat-guy.” But she definitely broke down some walls and made me feel a lot of incredibly strong emotions. Today, if anyone from my tough guy days asked me for life advice, I’d tell them to adopt a cat and enjoy the ride. It may be long, or it may be brief — but the experience is very likely to be spectacular.
Why It Matters
Not every healing experience looks like a therapy session. Sometimes it’s a quiet afternoon in a sunlit office, a warm body on your lap, or an animal who knows just when to show up. Care farms like Sanctuary One provide space for these quiet connections — ones that ask nothing from us but our presence, and in return, offer comfort, transformation, and moments of unexpected grace.
This Mental Health Awareness Month, may we all leave a little more space for these moments — however brief — to be spectacular.
