I turned 32 earlier this year. It’s my favorite number because it signifies my birth date, February 3rd. I had hoped 32 would be my magic number – a year of happiness, a time when I could simply glide through life after a couple of grueling years. Perhaps it would be the year I figured everything out, maybe even started planning the life I wanted to build with the man I was seeing.

Instead, this year has been one of the hardest of my life. Each month seemed to hurl one lemon after another. From getting shingles and spraining a foot, to dealing with a non-paying housemate and police reports, to going through romantic and financial turmoil. The final nail in the coffin was when my beloved first cat, Luna, suddenly went into acute kidney failure, just days after my breakup was sealed. 

I broke down. When I saw my reflection in the mirror, my eyes were so full of sadness that I wondered if I’d ever be truly happy again. 

One fine Saturday in Jakarta, I noticed that my cat, Luna, was quieter than usual. She wasn’t eating or drinking and, as dramatic as it sounded in my head, looked like she had given up on life.  

I called a vet, who then assured me nothing was wrong; she was probably just tired, still recovering from a bite wound my other cat had given her. Despite my unease, I decided to trust him.

On Monday, back at work in Singapore, my helper texted to say Luna had been lying down all morning, unable to get up. Panicked, I called my mom to rush her to the clinic while I scrambled for the first flight back to Jakarta on Tuesday.

Everything that followed suit was harrowing.

Luna was immediately placed in critical care. Blood tests revealed acute kidney failure. The vet said she was barely breathing, her temperature perilously low – she was halfway gone.

Guilt and regret began to consume me.

I shouldn’t have trusted the first vet’s assessment. I should have pushed for more tests. I should have caught this sooner.

My heart shattered, imagining Luna alone in the critical care unit, fighting for her life. I feared she wouldn’t know how much I loved her, that I had let her suffer in silence for who knows how long. I was terrified she would die before I could be there to show her otherwise.

Desperate, I considered something I’d always been skeptical about: hiring an animal communicator.

That Monday night, I did it. I asked the communicator to tell Luna to hang in there, that I was coming.

I got my miracle. Despite the vet’s pessimism, Luna survived the night, and I saw her on Tuesday morning.

I cradled her for hours, crying, talking, soothing her. To the vet’s surprise, Luna opened her eyes. She even meowed and tried to get up multiple times – a first in the last couple of days. She was lucid the whole time I was there. It was as if she was rallying one last time to let me know everything would be okay.

As the clinic closed for the day, I asked the vet about the best course of action. Luna’s prognosis was grim; there was no chance of recovery. Yet she showed progress with me by her side, so the vet wasn’t sure about putting her to sleep. We could only minimize her suffering until she passed.

Torn, I once again consulted the animal communicator. Did Luna want to keep fighting, or was it kinder to let her go? Just my luck, the reading was inconclusive.

In my life, there have been moments like this when I wished someone would just tell me the right thing to do and guarantee it was truly the right thing.

But there’s no such certainty, is there?

So, I did what I could: I weighed all the options and listened to my heart.

Luna might not have been ready to go just yet. She might have needed time to come to terms with her inevitable passing. So, I decided to give her that time.

Yet, overnight, Luna continued to deteriorate. Her breathing weakened, her temperature plummeted. Her eyes no longer opened; there was no more meow or attempt at walking. She looked so small and miserable. It was clear she was suffering, waiting for her organs to shut down one by one – but there was no telling how long that would take. She could suffer for a long time.

That’s when I made the difficult decision to give her my final gift. A gift of sleep and peace.

Through tears, I asked the vet to put her to sleep, ensuring she felt no pain in the process.

I gave her final hugs and kisses, and let her go.

In a daze, I flew back to Singapore on the same day. I tried to be professional, readying myself for a client event. 

But, as I was making arrangements for Luna’s cremation, I broke down crying in the middle of the office.  

My mentor found me and pulled me aside. She told me that I should never feel like I had to work through this kind of heartbreak. That I should set boundaries. That they could always figure out a way to fill in the gap as I put my shattered heart back together. 

“Go home and grieve,” she said. 

So, I did. I cried and cried for the rest of the day. I looked through old pictures and videos of Luna. I wrote her a final letter. 

That day, I hit rock bottom. I was unbearably sad and exhausted, the pain compounded from the past few weeks of going through my crumbling relationship and the ultimate breakup. It was so palpable that I couldn’t imagine how I could ever feel happiness again after this.

But that’s the thing about rock bottom: there’s no other way but up. 

A silver lining was that it stripped away all my defenses, which allowed me to experience rare moments of profound vulnerability. 

For the first time in two decades, right before I left Jakarta once again, I sat beside my mum, laid my head on her shoulder, and cried for God knows how long. She hugged me and said nothing except, “It’s been a long while since I last hugged you like this.” Our relationship has always been difficult, so this was a rare, healing moment.

Likewise, back in Singapore, I sat beside one of my oldest friends, Amanda, and did the same. We’ve known each other for 20 years, but I’d never been that vulnerable with her. To completely unravel before her and have her hold space for me was… again, for lack of better words, healing.

To my surprise, the next morning I woke up with a much lighter heart. The heavy sadness and endless regret was gone, replaced by resolve and acceptance.

With time, therapy, plenty of journaling, and so much love from friends and family, I got out of that deep, dark pit. Slowly but surely, I made peace with my wounds and regrets. I moved forward, taking one step after another to reset and rebuild.

The journey ahead is long, and while this year has not been as easy as I had hoped, turning 32 – my magic number – has given me what I needed: a way back into myself.

Credits:

Images by Yera Castelan, Vistawei & Sjoker13