Iris: The Golden Light in Our Chaos

Iris joined our little family in 2023, and honestly, she was tiny—like palm-of-your-hands tiny. A golden gradient British Shorthair with a face too cute to process and an appetite that rivaled a black hole.

Unlike her picky older siblings (Siri, the egg tart connoisseur, and Risi, the selective menace), Iris had no food preferences—just food. If it was edible (and sometimes even when it wasn’t), Iris was in. Her face would light up when snacks appeared, like someone had handed her the winning lottery numbers in treat form. She ate with joy, with purpose, with zero guilt. And she grew fast. Every day she looked a little older, a little fluffier, a little closer to the grown-up beauty I knew she’d become.

Risi and Siri never really saw eye to eye (we’re still investigating what exactly went down in that first meeting), but they both adored Iris. She was the little diplomat, the neutral party, the walking peace treaty in a fur coat. If Iris was in the room, Risi and Siri chilled out. She softened everyone, including the humans.

As a kitten, she was fearless—snuggling next to anyone, exploring everything, chasing Risi like it was her personal mission. But as she grew, she became a little more cautious, a little more shy when strangers came around. In those moments, she’d borrow a page from Siri’s playbook and hide under the bed like a sparkly-eyed ninja.

Still, most of the time, you’d find her on the window sill bed, pressed up against Siri in a perfect snuggle formation. They were total opposites, but they made it work. That bed is a little emptier now.

I’ve imagined her a thousand ways—older, fluffier, even more beautiful than she already was. But I won’t get to see that version of her. On the last day of April 2024, Iris passed away from congenital heart disease and nonregenerative anemia. I never want to write about her passing, because in my heart, she’s still running through the hallway chasing Risi, still sneaking snacks, still curling up next to Siri like a golden comma in our lives.

But her last gift to me was a quiet one: the lesson of grief, and the permission to begin acceptance. Her life may have been short, but her presence—her joy, her light, her love—left a permanent imprint on everyone she met.

She was my little sunbeam. And she still is.