Cart is empty 
I found Ani, the anole, this past Sunday — frozen.
She was in the pile of sea grape leaves I was raking, her body turned brown, completely still. The same sea grape tree she lives in had dropped its leaves around her.
At 31 degrees that morning, I thought she was dead.
Anoles here in South Florida glow a vibrant green when they’re warm and alive in the landscape. But when the temperature drops, they go still. Under 60 degrees, their bodies can’t function well. Under 40… they can become cold-stunned.
I brought her inside.
For the first 12 hours, nothing changed.
Then one eye opened slightly.
At 24 hours, her color began returning.
At 48 hours, she had moved — barely — and climbed out of the container to hang on the leg of a stool.
She stayed there almost a full day. Completely still. Gathering herself.
I found myself talking to her about the doorway. Letting her know it would be open when she was ready.
Exactly 72 hours after I brought her in, she was perched facing the outside world. It took her nearly 30 minutes to move from inside the doorway to out of it.
And then, instinct intact, she scurried straight back to the sea grape tree.
It was a moment.
I wondered if I should have kept her longer.
What if it got cold again?
What if a hawk saw her?
What if all that tending had been in vain?
I noticed how attached I’d become.
Loving her.
Watching her come back to life.
Witnessing the slow return of color, strength, instinct.
And it had me thinking about something else.
How we, too, can become stunned by the cold ending of a relationship.
How our color changes.
How we go still.
How we need a container.
A breezeway.
A blanket.
A voice reminding us the door will open when we’re ready.
Coming back isn’t dramatic.
It’s incremental.
It’s 12 hours. 24 hours. 72 hours.
It’s hanging on the stool leg gathering strength.
It’s rebuilding a nervous system.
Reclaiming warmth.
Trusting instinct again.
And yes — sometimes loving fiercely means we risk the cold.
Sometimes relationships crash and burn.
But even knowing that, I suspect I would still love as deeply as I do.
And more importantly, I know that recovery is possible.
And I know we are not meant to thaw alone.
This is part of what I hold in coaching — a steady, warm container where you can come back to color at your own pace.
Where no one rushes you through the doorway.
Where someone is quietly cheering as your life force returns.
A refuge.
So you can eventually scurry back toward the sea grape tree, toward what most feeds your soul and warms your heart.
Leave Your Comment