I’ve been sitting with something for the past few days that I can’t quite shake and so I know that means I need to share it.

It started while drafting a letter of intent for the Tony Robbins Foundation. This isn’t the first grant applications I’ve filled out, but this one felt different—more personal. It didn’t feel like I could just rattle off the usual: trap, fix, return, repeat. This one asked for something deeper. Something honest.

And that brought me back to my week in December, 2024 at Date With Destiny. I came home from that experience with a new lens, it created the person that has to take action to fix things that need to be fixed. One shaped by identity, by emotional state, and by the kinds of questions we’re willing to ask when we’re not looking for answers—we’re looking for truth.

This time, the question was:
What are we really doing here?

Sure—we trap cats. We spay and neuter. We return them. We reduce suffering. That’s the surface-level answer. It’s real, and it matters.

But when I tried to frame that for a foundation built around human transformation, it felt like I was only describing the tool—not the result. So, I started reflecting on the people we meet—not just the cats, but the human stories behind every address, every phone call, every porch with too many bowls.

Because the truth is: the cats are just the access point.
The people are the true mission.

We’ve met elderly women quietly feeding colonies on fixed incomes, stretching every dollar to keep bowls full. We’ve met couples who never meant to take in more than a dozen cats, but found themselves doing it anyway because nobody else would. We’ve met people who’ve lost more than most will ever know, but who still show up, every day, with food and water and compassion because that’s who they are.

Not because it’s easy. Not because they planned to.
But because they couldn’t not.

And that’s when it clicked:
We’re not just solving a feral cat problem. We’re showing up at a point in people’s lives where something—anything—going right really matters.

Fixing the cats is real work. But it’s also a pattern interrupt. It offers certainty in chaos. A spark of hope. A moment of connection in a life that may have grown quiet. It gives people significance—not for being in need, but for stepping in. For doing something. For caring.

We meet a deep human need when we do this work. Not just ours—the need for contribution, for growth, for meaning—but theirs, too. The ones who would never ask for help for themselves, but readily do so for the cats. The ones who felt invisible until someone showed up and saw them. The ones who were silently drowning, but said “thank you” like we’d handed them a rope.

And here’s what I’ve come to believe:
This is identity work. This is service. This is trust.

Quietly, respectfully, we’re helping people see themselves differently. Not as the person overwhelmed by too many cats, but as the one who brought the cycle to a stop. Not as someone stuck in the spiral, but someone who made a hard choice, a kind choice, and finally has room to breathe.

And when you see it like that, it changes you.

This thing we started with a few traps and a handful of cats is becoming something else.
It’s meeting needs I didn’t realize we were filling—ours, and theirs.

And if we’re brave enough to follow it where it wants to go, it might just change a lot more than we imagined.

Not just for the cats.
Not just for the neighborhoods.
But for the people.

And maybe, even for us.