It only took me about nine months to break down and get another cat. That’s what I told myself when a coworker talked me onto a purring tabby cradled in my arms. Nine months—long enough to grow a human, apparently just long enough for me to realize I couldn’t keep living in a house that felt too quiet, too empty, without the soft patter of paws or the insistent nudge of a whiskered face demanding attention.

I’d been resisting the urge ever since I lost my last cat. The grief had carved out a space in me that I wasn’t sure I wanted to fill. Friends kept saying, “You’ll know when you’re ready,” but readiness didn’t come with a memo. Instead, it crept up slowly, disguised as little moments: passing the pet aisle and lingering over the toys, catching myself smiling at cat videos online, or noticing how the sunbeam on the couch looked lonely without a furry body stretched across it. Nine months of that, and I guess my heart finally caved.

The decision wasn’t dramatic—no grand epiphany, just the constant nagging of a coworker who had kittens to place. Then boom, I knew I was ready to take home the scrappy little tabby with green eyes and a slightly crooked tail, that I had only seen in pictures. I drove to work that afternoon with my little cat bag and some treats. But when she climbed into my lap and started kneading my jeans, that was it. Nine months of holding out, undone in ten minutes.

Now, she’s here—knocking pens off my desk, chasing shadows across the floor, and reminding me why I ever thought I could go without this chaos. It’s funny how time works. Nine months felt like forever when I was mourning, but now it seems like just a pause, a breath before this new chapter started. I didn’t plan it this way, but maybe that’s the point. Sometimes, it takes nine months to break down and let yourself love again—and I’m so glad I did.