Life is rarely tidy. Right now, ours looks like this: our 200 pound dog (an Irish wolfhound) needs surgery on his foot.
His bloody footprints are staining the floors. Guests are arriving soon, the house still hasn’t had its long-overdue spring cleaning, work deadlines are piling up, and emails wait, unanswered, multiplying in quiet rebellion. Our community has seen loss this last month. The world feels tender. Wobbly. Too full.
And in the midst of all that? A small dog rests on my lap while I type. He’s warm. Loyal. Steady. My husband hands me a cup of coffee—just how I like it—and smiles at me like I’m not falling behind on everything. My friend drops off a bundle of lettuce from her garden. No ceremony. Just green, beautiful leaves in my hands.
These aren’t grand gestures. They’re small. But they are enough.
I think of them as stepping stones—little touchpoints across the rushing river of chaos. Moments that whisper, “Here. Step here next. You’re still connected. Still loved.”
I’ve come to believe that these tiny acts of kindness are survival tools. Not the dramatic kind you pack for emergencies, but the kind that keep your heart intact when life feels overwhelming. A text that says “thinking of you.” A smile. A silly plush toy that says, “You’re still wonderful, even when everything feels like a mess.”
Sometimes the chaos isn’t visible. It’s internal—emotions swirling beneath the surface. Uncertainty, anxiety, depression. Those, too, need light. And it’s often the smallest kindnesses that guide us through: a familiar voice. A shared laugh. A moment of not having to explain.
That’s the heartbeat behind Ploppals. It started as a way to bring comfort in life’s messiest moments. But really, it’s just a continuation of what I’ve learned again and again—that in the noise, the mess, the rush, it’s the quiet gestures that hold us. The ones that say, “You’re not alone. You matter. I care.”
And some days, that’s everything.
Heather
Founder, Ploppals
