I had a snake named Banana Smoothie for 13 years.
I know. Not everyone’s favorite animal. Stay with me.
He was a motley albino boa constrictor. Bright, bright yellow with pearl eyes and a white pattern down his back. The yellow was so vivid it almost swallowed the white whole. One of the most stunning animals I’ve ever had the privilege of sharing space with. And one of the gentlest.
Last week, I let him go.
He’d been sick with cancer for about three years. Stable enough to keep going, declining enough that I always knew, somewhere underneath, where it was headed. He was still eating. But his last meal told me everything. The vigor wasn’t there. The strength I’d watched him carry for over a decade had quietly left.
I knew.
Making the call to the special species department at the University vet school to schedule his euthanasia was one of the hardest things I’ve done in a long time. Hard in that specific way that comes when you’re certain something is right and yet it still costs you.
Right after I hung up, I went and sat on my patio.
A chickadee landed nearby and started chittering. An unusual occurrence. It just looked around. Looked at me. Never stopped singing.
I noticed it. And I knew it was the right call.
I wrote in my journal that night:
“Thank you universe for speaking through the chickadee. And thank you too, chickadee.”
It’s still sad. Knowing something is right doesn’t make it painless. But there’s a difference between grief and regret. I have the first one. Not the second.
Smoothie wasn’t happy in that body anymore. Keeping him in it would have been about me, not him. Paying close enough attention to know that, and then doing something about it, was the last real act of love I had to give him.
How often do we keep going with something because we’re not ready to stop? A relationship that’s run its course. A project we’ve outgrown. A version of ourselves we’re still dragging around because letting go feels too much like giving up.
It isn’t. Sometimes it’s the whole point.
What about you?
Is there something in your life you’re still holding on to out of habit, hope, or because stopping feels like failure? What would it mean to look at it clearly?
Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is let go.
Even when it’s sad.
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