This week, I said goodbye to my turtle companion, Speckles, who shared my life for over 32 years. Speckles came into my life as a gift from a third-grade science teacher. She was a special turtle who would sit quietly and listen attentively as students read aloud to her. From that moment, I knew I would accept her gift—and she would become a quiet companion for decades to come. Over time, she became a sacred presence in my home, my heart, and my healing.
Speckles was a diamondback terrapin, but more than that, she was a mirror of gentleness, rhythm, and presence. I often called her my “free-range turtle” because I eventually stopped keeping her in a tank—she walked freely around my home, choosing her favorite spots, carving out her own territory of peace. She never once made a mess outside her bathtub. She was dignified, elegant, particular, and deeply intelligent.
She taught me about patience, about moving slowly and deliberately. About resting when life became too much. About knowing when to retreat in stillness rather than panic. I often watched her pull in her head when chaos surrounded her, and I began to understand that response in myself. Her rhythms became part of my own.
During the COVID years, and especially as I’ve lived with Long COVID, Speckles became an unexpected guide. As my world shrank and illness demanded deep rest, I found myself moving more like her—slowly, deliberately, quietly. I watched how she knew when to retreat from stimulation, how she rested without guilt, how she took her time. Her stillness gave me permission to stop striving and simply be. She never required me to be cheerful or productive—just present, just there. And in that shared stillness, I began to understand how healing it could be to live with softness, on my own terms.
Through illness, joy, heartbreak, art, single-parenting two humans, grief, laughter, and all the quiet moments in between, Speckles remained constant—a steady part of the rhythm of my daily life, grounding me with her quiet presence. She never asked anything of me other than presence: a morning feeding, an evening check-in, a scratch at the tub when she was hungry, and in winter, her long, slow sleep.
She only ate one food—freeze-dried shrimp—and later in life insisted it be served cold. There was something both funny and regal about her preferences. Her standards were clear but never imposed.
In a world where love is so often confused with control or intensity, Speckles quietly embodied something else. She reminded me that love can be steady, simple, and respectful. That presence is enough. That companionship doesn’t need words to be profound. Her passing has reminded me how powerful quiet connection can be—and how deeply healing it is to be loved for exactly who we are.
She now rests in a small grave in my backyard, with stones from the beach we often visited together. She walked that beach with me many times over the years—drawn to the waves, full of wonder. As soon as she heard the ocean, even from a quarter mile away, she would begin her pilgrimage—taking her time, step by step, until she reached the shore. But she always came back to me, as if sensing that the vastness of the sea, though beautiful, wasn’t quite her place. After each journey, she would sleep deeply for a day or two, and I could sense how much it took out of her to make the trip. It was her ritual. And I respected it, and her, completely.
I will walk out to visit her now, to talk to her. I’ll plant flowers there. She is gone, but she is still with me.
Speckles lived longer than many human relationships. She gave more peace than many words ever could. Her life was small but vast—quiet but profound. She lived on her terms. And she showed me, simply by being, how to live more fully on mine.
Thank you, Speckles, for your grace, your rhythm, your wisdom, and your quiet love.
You were never “just a turtle.”
You were the soul of my home.
I will hold you in my heart always.
Much love,
Triada, Liam, Leopold
Gotta let her go
