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 threw a padel tournament party. 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 with 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. She was 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 and 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. Her brave smile 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. Not did he 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 but instead 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 or masked harder than you realized.

Next time? Be the damn cat!

Beings that know their limits don’t wait for collapse to make the 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 or for your mask to fall off mid-sentence.

Just go.

Thank you, bar cat, for modeling boundaries like a tiny, smug furry therapist.

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 and still in sweatpants.

Sanne

We all have a version of that bar.