Well Sh*t
The Tale of the Glorious Bar Cat and Its Perfectly Timed Exit
Oh, you absolute glorious, black, bar-top Buddha of boundaries.
Thank You, Bar Cat
There’s a moment, somewhere between the sixth version of All I Want for Christmas Is You and the fifteenth “thud” of a padel ball, when your brain just… melts.
That moment came for me at a birthday party.
One of my kids’ friends. A padel tournament.
You know — the wholesome kind of chaos you say yes to without realizing your body’s going to invoice you for it later.
By the time we arrived, I was already tired from the drive.
The kids jumped into the tournament — adrenaline flying, rackets swinging, full chaos mode engaged.
Me? I found a spot in the cafeteria next to the padel court.
It was busy, but manageable.
Until it wasn’t.
“Overstimulation isn’t a vibe — it’s an eviction notice from your brain.”
Layered Noise Torture 101:
- Friendly chatter across the table? Fine.
- Echoing padel slams from the court? Mildly jarring.
- Christmas music at full retail volume? Aggressively festive.
- And THEN they turned on the TV. Football. With commentary. And the men suddenly had very big, very loud feelings about it, ugh...
My brain? Pure mush.
Like someone had taken a whisk to my nervous system.
And across the table sat this lovely woman — autistic, calm, engaging, smiling bravely through the auditory warzone. I admired her ability to keep it together. Meanwhile, I could feel myself starting to fray.
That’s when I saw it.
The Cat.
A black cat.
Sitting. On top of the bar.
Like it owned the bloody place.
I blinked. Looked again.
Nope. Still there.
Majestic little chaos gremlin perched up high, surveying the nonsense like it was all beneath him.
I nudged the woman next to me:
“Are you seeing this?”
She nodded, wide-eyed. “Oh yeah.”
Good.
At least I wasn’t hallucinating.
(Not yet.)
And then — as quickly as it had arrived — the cat was gone.
Just... done.
Didn’t ask for permission.
Didn’t apologize.
Didn’t wave goodbye.
Just got up and walked away.
The Mask Slipped
Shortly after, I saw the woman across from me start to crumble. Not dramatically.
But her brave smile didn't just fade; it evaporated. She stopped tracking the conversation, her hands fidgeting with a napkin, staring at her tea like it held the secrets to the universe.
She was done. I could feel it.
And that’s when I realized:
So was I.
I felt for her.
I felt for me.
I felt for my kids, still mid-tournament, blissfully unaware that their mother was running on empty fumes and a peppermint-flavored tea of adrenaline.
Boundaries, Baby (With a Side of Guilt)
My brain screamed RUN, but my internal 'Good Mom' programming whispered just one more hour.
Leaving early felt like failure. Like tapping out too soon. Like I was somehow stealing joy from my kids and slapping guilt on top of already-depleted energy.
But then I remembered the cat.
That glorious, black, bar-top Buddha of boundaries.
He didn’t wait for the noise to stop.
He didn’t check if anyone else was okay with it.
He just got up and went.
Because that’s what beings in tune with their limits do.
I knew what had to happen next.
I had to leave.
“Sometimes self-care isn’t a bath. It’s leaving the damn building without apologizing profusely or taking a guilt trip.”
The Universal Truth, Courtesy of a Feline Guru:
We all have a version of that bar. That moment when your body knows before your mind admits it: This is too much. I’m at my edge.
Maybe your version isn’t a birthday party.
Maybe it’s a family dinner, a loud restaurant, a chaotic Zoom call, or sitting through one more conversation where you have to pretend you’re okay.
Maybe you’ve stayed longer than you should’ve.
Smiled longer than you meant to.
Masked harder than you realized.
Next Time? Be the Cat.
Beings that know their limits don’t wait for collapse to make a decision. They don't justify, apologize, or over-explain.
So, next time your nervous system says, “hey… we’re done here”
Listen.
Don’t wait for it to scream.
Don’t wait for your mask to fall off mid-sentence.
Just go.
Thank you, bar cat, for modeling boundaries like a tiny, smug therapist in fur.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be that cool.
But I am trying, writing from my cave with blankets... Mask off. Mic dropped. Still in sweatpants.
xo
Sanne
We all have a version of that bar.
That moment when your body knows before your mind wants to admit it — “this is too much.”
What was yours?
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