Always Remember

For some, it lies close to the surface—and rises often.
For others, it sleeps beneath layers: of noise, of fear, of a world that teaches us to forget. But it is there.
It is always there. A memory that whispers softly, yet with the strength of a lion. A memory that reminds us that all life matters.
Not just the lives that look like our own or speak in ways we understand.
But every single life.

Every being. Every soul. Whether wrapped in fur, fleece or feather—Every. Single. One.

And thankfully, for one tiny lamb, that memory stirred in someone’s heart.

Still wet with the scent of his mumma’s womb, Birch was found. Small. Newborn. Alone.

But not unseen.

The kind soul who came upon him didn’t look away.

They didn’t rationalise, or call it nature. Or someone else’s problem.
They remembered what too many have forgotten.
And with both hands—and an open heart—they scooped him up and guided him to sanctuary.

That first night—the one all rescuers dread—was filled with the tiny cries of confusion and loss. Birch called out for a mumma he would never know.

They all do.

And though the bottle is not what his bones expected—not what the memory of his body knew—he drank.

It tasted good.

Because survival, too, is sacred.

And still—there is grief.
And yet—there is hope.

For the empathy we feel for Birch is not just for him. It is a reflection of what lives within us:

The deep knowing that vulnerability deserves protection.
That kindness isn’t weakness—it’s remembering.

Remembering that though divided by species, we are united by something more enduring.
We are all tethered by tenderness.

Always remember— The human heart is roughly the size of two hands clasped together.
And those two hands are the perfect size to hold a newborn lamb.

On the days when the world feels too heavy,
when you feel you have nothing left,
when grief steals your breath—

Listen.

There is still a song in your heart.
It’s called kindness.

Always, always remember that.