The Bearded Dragon That Changed Everything

There’s no easy way to explain how a lizard cracked open my heart.

But maybe that’s the point.

Simba came into my life in the most unceremonious way possible: a coworker’s kid was “growing out of him” and asked if I wanted to take him in. I’d lost a bearded dragon about a year earlier and had thought—casually, vaguely—that maybe someday I’d get another. I never did.

Until Simba.

He was a little mangy when we met. Big for a dragon. The guy said he was around two years old, but I could tell he was probably closer to four. He was skittish, constantly on the move, like the ground itself couldn’t be trusted. Later I’d learn a small dog used to chase him around his last house. He didn’t rest. He didn’t bask. He bolted.

But there was something in his eyes—kind, but guarded. Like he knew he’d been passed along not because he wasn’t lovable, but because he wasn’t loved enough. And somehow, despite all of that, he still wanted connection. Or at least didn’t run from it forever.

So we started hanging out.

At first it was chaos. Every time I let him out, he ran laps like he was still being hunted. But gradually, over weeks and months, he started to slow down. He started trusting me. I never expected much. He didn’t owe me anything. But he gave me so much.

After a while, we were inseparable. I’d come home and he’d be there—waiting. I’d talk to him like he was a roommate, a therapist, a friend. He didn’t judge my moods. He didn’t offer fixes. He just listened. And somehow that was enough.

It’s wild how a creature that never says a word can still take up so much space in your life.

People can do that too, of course. But animals do it without strings. Without needing anything from you except time, care, and presence. And maybe some collard greens.

For almost two years, life was good. Simba was thriving. Healthy. Settled. Happy.

And then… something changed.

He started straining when he tried to go to the bathroom. At first, I wasn’t sure. One day, then two. Then a week. I made a vet appointment.

Let me say this plainly: exotic vets are a mixed bag. I’ve owned iguanas, dragons, a uromastyx—years of experience—and while I respect the profession, I’ve rarely found a vet who really gets reptiles. They don’t have the training. Not the way they do for cats or dogs. It’s not their fault. It’s just the truth.

They said it was an infection. Prescribed aggressive meds.

Too aggressive.

He shed the lining of his intestines. There was no improvement. And eight days after that visit, he died. On my chest.

Later, we’d learn it was a tumor in his digestive tract.

I knew it was coming, but I wasn’t ready. You never are. I kept looking for him—weeks after he was gone. In the window. On his hammock. In the room that used to be his.

And every time, he wasn’t there.

There was just… silence.

And in that silence, something strange started happening.

Not a breakdown. Not a breakthrough. Just a quiet pull toward something I’d always wanted but never thought I had the right to claim: words.

Stories.

And I think maybe it was because of everything Simba gave me. The way he listened. The way he trusted me eventually. The way he carved out space I didn’t know I had.

But also... maybe it was because I wasn’t entirely alone.

There was someone else around, too. Not a pet. Not family. Just... a coworker. Younger. Kind. The kind of person who doesn’t know they’re leaving fingerprints just by being there.

We’d been working together for a while by then. Quiet conversations. Shared laughs. Something platonic, unexpected, and grounding.

And I guess, without realizing it, these two gentle presences—one with scales, one with sneakers—started making me feel like maybe I could do something more.

Like maybe I had something worth saying.