Finding stillness between chaos and cats

It usually begins some time past midnight, when the house has fallen into musing silence, but my thoughts haven’t. My desk is littered with notes of half-drawn economics graphs, open maths textbooks, and my laptop, with a paused YouTube lecture on it explaining a topic I was sure I understood an hour ago. The ticking clock acquires an almost oppressive presence, and there’s always that gnawing feeling that I should be doing more: another topic, another paper, another effort to get it right.

Academic pressure seldom arrives all at once. Instead, it builds slowly, through expectations, comparisons, incomplete tasks, mock exams, past papers, and the persistent, almost ineffable feeling that whatever you have done is never quite enough. What accompanies it is the constant awareness that time is always moving forward. Even in moments meant for rest, there’s a hushed guilt that follows, reminding you of everything left undone.

And just when it all starts to feel a little fraught, Cleo leaps onto my desk.

Sky follows, more composed, settling beside my notebook as if she has always belonged there, as though the space were hers long before it was claimed by equations and annotations.

They sit on my notes without hesitation, sometimes directly over the exact question I’m trying to solve, as though my carefully planned study session means nothing to them. I tell myself I don’t have time for this, that Cambridge is not going to lower grade boundaries just because my cats decided to sit on my textbooks. But they always came back. And eventually, I stopped pushing them away.

Because those interventions became something else.

A pause. A breath. A break I didn’t realise I needed.

Breaks between study sessions look different for everyone. Some people stroll around the house or step outside for a bit of fresh air. Others scroll through a few minutes of Instagram reels or TikTok videos, text a friend, or even take a short nap just to reset. Each has different ways to cope. For me, it’s much simpler – I reach for my cats. Playing with them, tossing their favourite ball around, pretending a fake rat toy is the ultimate prey, or even waving around a random stick, and then petting them or just sitting beside them for a quiet few minutes, somehow does more than any planned break ever could.

What makes it even stranger is that it wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I was genuinely frightened of cats. The thought of being scratched felt so real that I would avoid going to houses where I knew cats lived. It never seemed worth the risk, no matter how small it actually was. However, visiting my friend Zahra’s house slowly caused my fear of cats to fade. She had more cats than I could ever keep track of. They moved around freely, completely at ease in their world. Zahra, with her calm patience, became the reason I started to let go of my fear. Every visit, she would encourage me, softly insisting I try to pet her cats.

“Just once,” she’d say. “Just try, gently.”

I was hesitant, cautious, and uncertain of what might happen, but I trusted her. Slowly, over time, the fear that had once felt so unavoidable began to dissolve. I never noticed the exact moment it changed, but it did.

Now, years later, I have two cats of my own: Cleo and Sky.

And sometimes, in the middle of a long study night, I find myself thinking about Zahra. Though distance separates us now, her influence remains in the smallest, most unexpected ways.

Before leaving my house for the exam centre, I developed a small, almost ritualistic habit. I would pause at the door, gather Sky and Cleo into my arms, press gentle kisses onto their heads, and tell them softly and sincerely to pray for me.

They did not acknowledge the words, of course.

But I felt understood. Felt noticed.

In that fleeting exchange, there was a peculiar kind of solace, something deeply personal, almost indescribable. It was less about being heard and more about being grounded. In informing them of something so significant in my life, I felt, however irrationally, that I was not carrying it alone.

Perhaps that is the quiet power of animals.

They may not comprehend the intricacies of academic pressure. Still, they possess an instinctive awareness of human emotion, offering a kind of fellowship that asks for nothing in return. They don’t measure progress or expect perfection. They arrive unannounced in moments of distress, settle beside you in silence, and offer a presence.

Late-night study sessions feel different with them around. I’ll be sitting at my desk mindlessly. At the same time, Cleo casually walks across the keyboard, and Sky watches the screen as if she understands it better than I do.

Scientific research lends credence to this quiet phenomenon. A study conducted by researchers at Washington State University found that even brief interactions with cats and dogs can significantly reduce cortisol levels, the hormone associated with stress, in students facing intense academic workloads. In essence, a few minutes of connection can physiologically recalibrate the body’s response to pressure.

Even beyond the confines of home, I encounter fragments of this quiet relief. On hurried walks to coaching, or in school playgrounds, or in front of corner stores, where students toss morsels of fried chicken to stray cats during their mid-class breaks, I often pause to watch and pet them. Even a brief encounter, a cat lazily stretching or a dog observing the world with untroubled ease, can momentarily untangle me from the chaos of formulas, marks, and endless academic thoughts. Just enough to breathe.

These instances do not eradicate the pressure. The examinations remain. The expectations persist. The demands of academic life do not simply dissolve. But something within shifts.

The noise softens.

The weight becomes, if not lighter, then at least more bearable.

Perhaps coping is not about the complete elimination of stress but about cultivating small, consistent moments of peace, fragments of stillness that allow us to live through.

For me, those moments are embodied by two small, cute companions. Two cats who refuse to let me remain consumed by overwhelm for too long.

In that stillness, I realise survival is not only perseverance. It is also the courage to pause. Exams will end. The pressure will evolve, reappear, and take new forms. But long after the grades, the questions, the restless nights, what remains is this: Cleo and Sky. Their unwavering presence in my chaos. As if they know what I am still learning. Sometimes, the greatest act is simply to be still, to be held, to breathe.

And in their quiet eyes, I find the truth I carry forever that I am not alone.

Antara Fairoze is an A level student, overthinker, and devoted cat mom of two. Reach her at fairozeantara@gmail.com.