Darkness to Light: How Sage and Simba Saved My Life

By Justyne Greenlaw / Fall 2024

Song to Listen to while reading…

It was one of the darkest periods of my life. I was raw from a breakup, barely making it through each day. I felt lost, sad, and buried under a weight of loneliness I couldn’t escape. My room was a reflection of my mind—cluttered, untouched, and neglected. I hadn’t found the energy to clean in weeks, leaving the door cracked open in defeat, letting the world seep in as it pleased. Then, I heard it. A soft, tentative meow. At first, I thought I imagined it, a trick of my desperate mind. But then I heard it again—clearer, closer. I looked down and saw her: a tiny, fragile kitten, eyes wide with curiosity, hiding under my bed. That’s how Sage entered my life—out of nowhere, as if she had been sent to save me. And in many ways, she did. Sage wasn’t alone. Not long after, her kittens brought their energy and innocence into my broken world. Watching them play and grow gave me something I hadn’t felt in months—a sense of purpose, a reason to get up in the morning. She didn’t care about the mess in my room or the mess in my heart; she just needed love, food, and care. And in caring for her, I began to heal myself.

Simba, (3rd kitten going left to right in photo),  one of Sage’s kittens, became my lifeline. He’s with me now, living in my dorm, my constant companion. At night, when the silence feels too heavy, Simba curls up beside me, grounding me, helping me sleep. He’s not just a pet, he’s my world, my friend, my reminder that life goes on, even when it feels impossible. Sage, Simba, and their presence in my life have been transformative. They showed up when I had nothing left to give, and by needing me, they taught me to keep going. I don’t know where I’d be without them, but I do know I’m endlessly grateful they found their way to me. Their presence is woven into the fabric of my everyday life. With Sage, I found resilience; with Simba, I found unconditional companionship. They have redefined what family means to me in the simplest, most profound ways. His presence has guided me through the aftermath of one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made: leaving an extremely abusive relationship. That chapter of my life shattered me, leaving behind fragments of a person I barely recognized. But somehow, in the middle of that brokenness, Sage appeared, bringing her kittens and with them, the beginnings of a new story. Every morning, Simba’s soft purring is a reminder of the strength it took to walk away, to choose myself. In my dorm, a space I’ve carved out as my sanctuary, Simba has made it feel like home. He’s there through the quiet nights when the echoes of the past try to creep in, grounding me with his warmth and steady presence. He doesn’t just help me sleep, he gives me peace.

The song Dreamland by Glass Animals feels like it was written for moments like this. It captures the surreal, fragile space I found myself in after one of the darkest periods of my life. Listening to it, I feel the pull of its dreamlike quality, the way it blurs pain and beauty, much like my own journey. Its haunting tones and introspective lyrics remind me of the strange, suspended reality I lived in—a place between despair and hope, where everything felt both heavy and fleeting. When Sage first appeared at my door, I was buried in that dreamland of my own. I was raw, lost, and barely getting through the days. The breakup had shattered me, and my room mirrored the chaos inside my mind. But when I heard her soft meow and saw her tiny, fragile frame, it felt like something cracked open—not in the way I’d been breaking before, but in a way that let light in.

The song’s refrain, “You go and do your thing / I'll never be the same,” lingers in my mind as I think about those early days with Sage. She wasn’t just a kitten; she was a lifeline. Her presence pulled me out of myself, forced me to care about something outside the mess in my head. When her kittens came, it was like life injected color back into my grayscale world. Watching them play, grow, and explore was a reminder that even in the darkest moments, life goes on. I see my story reflected in the song’s dreamy soundscape. It feels like floating—not completely grounded, but not entirely lost. That’s exactly how I felt. Leaving my abusive relationship left me shattered in ways I hadn’t expected, and I didn’t know if I could put the pieces back together. But Sage and Simba helped me start. Just like Dreamland seems to find beauty in the fragility of memory, I began to find beauty in the little things—Simba’s soft purr at night, the way Sage looked at me like I mattered, even when I felt like I didn’t. Every single day, Simba heals a part of me he didn’t break.

Glass Animals captures that strange space where pain meets healing. The song’s layers of sound feel like the layers of my own journey, where grief and gratitude coexist. It’s not just about moving forward; it’s about sitting with the weight of the past and still choosing to hope. Sage and Simba taught me that. They didn’t care about my brokenness. Dreamland also reminds me of the larger questions I wrestle with. Its surreal tones echo the way I feel when I think about the fragility of the world around me. Raising Sage’s kittens last summer gave me a glimpse of pure, untainted life. Their innocence and joy is a reminder of the kind of beauty we risk losing to climate change, greed, and destruction. When I hear the song’s ethereal melody, I think about what kind of world we’re leaving behind for creatures like them.

Just as the song moves between nostalgia and urgency, so do I. Naomi Klein’s words, “What if confronting the climate crisis is the best chance we’ll ever get to build a better world?” play in my head alongside the lyrics. Those kittens became my symbol of hope, a reason to believe in something better—not just for them, but for all of us. I think of their tiny paws and curious eyes, and I feel the weight of what’s at stake. When I listen to Dreamland now, it feels like a soundtrack to my story. It reminds me of the delicate balance between holding on and letting go, between despair and healing. It’s the sound of resilience—the kind I found in them, in myself, and in the quiet determination to create a future worth fighting for.

I once thought the world was fair, or at least that fairness was its natural state. This belief, as fragile as it was, shattered under the weight of what I’ve learned. Innocence feels like a soft cushion of ignorance, one I no longer rest upon. Now, I see the cracks in the foundation, the ugly truths hidden behind polished veneers. Naomi Klein’s words echo in my mind: “Our economic model is at war with life on Earth.” Her indictment of capitalism revealed that the comforts and conveniences I once cherished came at a cost too great to ignore. And as Howard Zinn’s narratives of “Robber Barons and Rebels” illustrated, these costs were never borne equally. The classroom became a battlefield for my beliefs. Discussions of climate justice, systemic racism, and economic exploitation stripped away my naivety, replacing it with a mix of rage and purpose. It wasn’t just about understanding these issues, it was realizing how deeply I was entangled in them. Every choice I made, every product I consumed, seemed complicit in a larger system of harm. As Klein observes, “We are left with a stark choice: allow climate disruption to change everything about our world, or change pretty much everything about our economy to avoid that fate.” It’s not just a climate issue; it’s a human issue, a reckoning with how much we’re willing to sacrifice for the illusion of progress.

The history Zinn recounts isn’t confined to the past, it’s the script of the present, performed by new actors but following the same exploitative plot. "The cries of the oppressed are loud, but the ears of the powerful are deafened by profit," I reflect, paraphrasing his insights. We live in a society that punishes vulnerability and rewards greed, where justice is a luxury and equality an aspiration too often denied. And yet, despite the weight of these realizations, there’s a strange clarity in knowing the truth, even when it hurts. I feel the loss in my bones, a silent grief for a world I’ll never fully know. The sheer scale of what is unraveling is almost too vast to comprehend. I think of the ecosystems, delicate and interwoven, as tapestries spun over eons, rivers carving valleys, coral reefs glowing with life, forests whispering secrets to the sky. These threads are fraying, snapping one by one, and there’s no sound more deafening than the silence left behind. Klein’s words haunt me: “Every decision not to act is an action in itself.” It’s a betrayal of the Earth, a collective shrug from those who hold the power to change course.

I cannot unsee the images burned into my mind: polar bears stranded on shrinking ice, fires consuming ancient forests, oceans choking on plastic and chemicals. It’s like watching a loved one wither away, knowing their suffering is preventable yet powerless to stop the machine driving it. Each degree of warming feels like a countdown, each rising tide a tolling bell. The fragility of life becomes undeniable, the balance we once relied on precarious, trembling under the weight of humanity’s choices. And yet, the devastation isn’t a distant storm, it’s here, now, seeping into every corner of our existence. It’s in the toxic air that fills the lungs of children, the parched soil that yields less each year, the rising waters swallowing homes and histories. We live in the shadow of an existential threat, but our response is fragmented, suffocated by denial and inertia. As Zinn might observe, “The powerful are blind to the cries of the suffering, for their wealth muffles the sound.” But what happens when the suffering swallows us all?

I wrestle with guilt, anger, and helplessness. How can I rage against a system I’m complicit in, a world designed for me to consume, discard, and move on? How do I mourn something that feels too vast to grieve? Klein reminds me that this is not just an environmental crisis, it is a crisis of imagination, a failure to envision a world beyond greed and extraction. She writes, “What if confronting the climate crisis is the best chance we’ll ever get to build a better world?” And in that question, there’s a flicker of hope. But hope is fragile, too. It demands action, collective and urgent, a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths and remake the systems we depend on. It’s a heavy burden, and I wonder if we’re strong enough to carry it. Still, the alternative, a barren, lifeless shadow of a world, is a future I cannot accept. It’s not just about preserving what’s left; it’s about redefining what we value and who we want to be. We stand at the edge of a precipice, and the choice is ours to make. Will we leap into the unknown with courage, or tumble into the void of our own making?

I had the wonderful experience of raising 5 baby kittens over the summer last year.  Raising those five kittens felt like a moment of purity in a world that often feels chaotic and broken. Their tiny paws, curious eyes, and soft purring reminded me of life’s innate beauty, the kind that climate change threatens to strip away. In their playful innocence, I saw a fragile, untainted world, one that exists in harmony with its surroundings, unburdened by greed or destruction. But I couldn’t help but think: what kind of future awaits them? Will their world be one of lush gardens and thriving ecosystems, or will they inherit a barren landscape shaped by our failures? These kittens became a symbol for me, a reason to fight harder, to hope deeper, and to act boldly. Naomi Klein’s words, “What if confronting the climate crisis is the best chance we’ll ever get to build a better world?” take on a new urgency when I think of them.

Their lives, and the lives of countless beings, depend on the choices we make now. To protect them is to protect the delicate tapestry of life they’re a part of, to safeguard the innocence and joy they represent in a world teetering on the edge of loss. I feel a sense of warmth when I think about these little ones, a love and admiration so strong, it makes me wonder what I can do to ensure them a happy life. Tangible steps like reducing single-use plastics, supporting sustainable agriculture, and conserving water are powerful ways to start. Transitioning to renewable energy sources and advocating for systemic change can amplify our impact. Planting native gardens, supporting local farmers, and consuming mindfully foster healthier ecosystems and reduce our carbon footprint. Small actions, like walking or biking instead of driving, turning off unused electronics, and composting, ripple outward, creating meaningful change. Just as those kittens embody hope and life, so do our efforts to nurture and heal our planet. Together, we can build a future where innocence thrives, joy multiplies, and harmony with nature is restored.Their tiny paws and curious eyes hold the kind of unspoiled beauty that the world so desperately needs, yet risks losing. They deserve a future where skies are clear, rivers run clean, and forests teem with life. We owe it to them, to ourselves, and to every living being to rise up and protect this fragile Earth. Bold steps are not just necessary; they are urgent. Demand clean energy and divest from fossil fuels. Plant trees and restore habitats, creating sanctuaries where life can thrive. Cut back on waste, reduce meat consumption, and choose sustainable products that respect the planet. But don’t stop there—speak up, vote for leaders who prioritize the environment, and inspire others to take action.

This is more than a fight for survival; it’s a fight for love, for the love we feel for every innocent creature, every breathtaking sunset, every child’s smile that deserves a healthy world to grow up in. We have the power to rewrite the story, to build a legacy of healing and renewal. We want to make this Earth not just livable, but vibrant, a place where those kittens and all of us can thrive.