I slammed on the brakes and forced the car to a stop. I leapt out, leaving the door hanging open, and ran through the snow toward his body. I had seen him from the road—someone I loved deeply—lying lifeless on a snowbank on that frosty Friday morning.

I scooped him up and pressed him to my chest. His body was still warm, and for a fleeting moment, I let myself believe he might still be alive.

I pressed my hand against his chest, searching desperately for a heartbeat while my own felt like it was skipping. I prayed for life in his body, even as I felt it draining from mine. He was the favorite cat—the one everyone loved, even strangers meeting him for the first time. He was always the favorite.

Clutching his body against my heart, I ran back through the snow. Tears streamed down my face as the reality began to settle in. I fumbled for my phone in the cupholder and called my neighbor, a veterinarian, but there was no life left to save.

An hour later, I sat staring into the fire, still rocking his body, allowing myself to feel everything. I sobbed from the deepest part of my being, fully aware of the weight and permanence of this loss.

Hours passed as I continued to sit by the fire. Then, in the quiet, a moment of stillness—a sacred pause—made itself known. I allowed myself to meet it.

That pause asked me a single question: What truly matters in life?

It is the most important question we can ask ourselves, and in that moment, I realized he was offering me one final gift as he left this earthly plane.

And then the deeper question emerged: How much am I willing to change my life to align with what truly matters?

Because ultimately, that answer reveals just how much it matters to me.