There you are—deep in a brief, in a spreadsheet, in an email that actually matters—and thump. Seventeen fluffy pounds of “notice me” come strutting across your keyboard like she’s auditioning for Project Runway: Feline Edition.

Your screen fills with random emojis.

The document now contains the characters A=∂ß, which you definitely did not type.

Your Zoom chat thinks you’ve messaged “;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;” at your colleagues.

And to make matters worse, she has now settled directly on your lap, effectively trapping you.

Because she’s a cat. And you no longer have rights.

If this were just about a cat, you’d sigh, try to relocate her, and get back to whatever you were doing. But if you’ve had cancer, you know it’s not just the cat. It’s never just about the cat.

It’s the interruption. The loss of control. The reminder that even on a normal Tuesday life can still yank the steering wheel out of your hands.

You’ve built a life on precision, problem-solving, and follow-through. You used to outwork chaos.

Then cancer crash-landed and rewired your nervous system.

Now a minor disruption—a paw on the delete key, a surprise hairball, someone calling your name from another room and distracting you—can hit your system like an alarm.

Why does this feel so big?

Because your nervous system has been conditioned to anticipate danger, and it doesn’t know the difference between “you have cancer” and “you have a cat on your keyboard.”

The fact is, cats and cancer are two things that seem perfectly designed to show us that we are not, in fact, in control.

So the next time your feline coworker decides she has comments on your document, try this:

1. Pause.

Hands off the keys (paws too).

One inhale for four, exhale for six.

Tell your brain, “We are safe.”

2. Name what’s happening.

“This is an interruption, not an emergency.”

Interruptions feel like emergencies when your body’s been on high alert, but you can retrain your body to feel the difference when you name it.

3. Redirect—with compassion.

A decoy box, a folded blanket, or a warm corner works wonders.

Cats love visible boundaries.

So do brains.

PS don’t forget to pet her first. Seriously.

4. Set a micro-boundary you can actually keep.

“When I'm typing, the door is closed.”

“Calls now, laser pointer later.”

Consistency calms nervous systems—yours and the cat’s.

5. Repair quickly if you snapped and yelled at your kitty.

A gentle pat, a quick cuddle, and move on.

You’re teaching your system (and your cat) that connection and relationships can recover. And so can your focus.

But read between the lines here - I’ve given you boundaries for your cat when she’s on your computer keyboard. But there’s more to it than that. Remember how I told you it’s not about the cat?

Zoom out: where else is “cat-on-keyboard energy” showing up?

Slack pings at 9:30 p.m.

Clients or colleagues who “just need five minutes.”

Family group texts blowing up while you’re refreshing your scan results portal.

Your brain interpreting every interruption as a threat.

None of these interruptions are life-or-death. But stacked together, they summon the same powerless feeling you’re working so hard to heal.

Here’s the reframe I offer the women I coach:

Your cat is a boundary coach in a fur coat.

Annoying? Yep.

Weirdly effective? Also yep.

She shows you exactly where:

• your energy leaks,

• your over-responsibility kicks in,

• your resentment builds,

• or your nervous system needs a cue that the crisis has passed.

So the next time you cat is dancing on your keyboard, let it be your reminder:

1. Breathe.

2. Name it.

3. Set a boundary

4. Reset.

Not because the work isn’t important. But because you are important.

And because a life that fits you now—post-diagnosis, post-treatment, isn’t one without interruptions.

But it can be one where interruptions don’t own you.

If you want help building boundaries that actually stick (and don’t feel mean), I’m here. You don’t have to white-knuckle your way through cancer recovery—or working from home with a furry tyrant on your keyboard.

You get to feel steady again, paws and all. 🐾

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