Ted D. Bear (2019–Present)
A Five Dollar Adoption That Outlasted Everything Else
I adopted Ted for five dollars.
He was tipped over in a bin at a second-hand store, looking like all the life in him was gone. His fur was a little faded. His body was too large for practicality. He was too big to pass off as decoration. He wasn’t something anyone was looking to adopt… except me.
Five dollars felt less like a purchase and more like a decision.
In 2019, I didn’t have much.
I didn’t have a car.
I didn’t have a permanent place to live.
I didn’t really have any money.
But now I had Ted.
I carried him out in a bear hug, already aware that he would complicate the rest of my life.
He was awkward to hold. His legs dragged. His head tilted backward in a way that made it look like he was staring at the ceiling, uninterested in being rehomed. But I was going to give him a new life!
Ted became the one thing in my life that stayed still.
He slept on whatever floor or mattress I had at the time. When I moved, he moved. When I didn’t know where I was going next, he didn’t ask questions. He simply occupied space in whatever room we landed in.
You could call it stupid to choose something impractical when your life already feels impractical. It’s almost defiant. Like saying, if this is going to be uncertain, it might as well be weird too.
At one point, I moved and left Ted behind. He kept my sister company while I weathered the pandemic in a different state.
Ted didn’t change. He knew he wasn’t abandoned. He simply had another life to touch for a while.
I came back for him.
In 2021, I had to spend a couple of months putting my life back together in my parents’ house. Ted was there. I got COVID. My accounts were hacked. A semi-truck totaled my car.
But I still had Ted.
He sat in the corner while I was sick. He didn’t offer encouragement. He didn’t need to. He was just there. He stuck it out with me while I quarantined.
I decided I would never leave him behind again.
Early in his life, my sister and I cut his back open and sewed in a zipper.
It wasn’t destruction. It felt like adaptation.
I wanted to be able to wear Ted. To zip myself into something insulated and still. To create a space where the noise softened, and the world felt buffered.
Inside, everything is different. The outside world becomes distant. The air is warm and stuffy. It is hard to move or see. It is what Ted fights through every day.
We moved to Montana together. Roommates, officially. Anyone who came over would be greeted immediately by a giant bear. It was weird, but that’s just how I am. I wasn’t going to hide him in a closet.
It’s strange how powerful “just there” can be.
Over the next few years, we moved a couple more times. Homes changed. Life shifted. Priorities evolved. But Ted never got smaller. If anything, he became more noticeable. Every move required explaining him. Every landlord had to silently process his existence. Neighbors questioned the weirdo hauling a human-sized stuffed bear through the door.
He rode in the passenger seat on long drives to Arizona and back for modeling work. There’s something oddly comforting about glancing over and seeing a giant stuffed bear bouncing slightly with the rhythm of the highway.
While I was out setting the Appalachian Trail record, Ted spent two months in a storage unit.
I remember locking the metal door and hearing it echo shut. Inside were boxes of clothes, old notebooks, a mattress, and Ted leaning against the wall like he was waiting for instructions.
There’s something about leaving everything soft behind when you go chase something hard.
You strip life down to what you can carry.
You reduce it to calories, miles, and daylight.
You make it about forward motion.
Meanwhile, somewhere in a quiet storage unit, something constant waits.
When I came back, I rolled the door up, and there he was. Same expression. Same shape. Unmoved by the miles I’d covered.
Ted has never cared about pace or performance.
He has never asked about sponsorships or records.
He has never questioned whether the goal was worth it.
He has simply been there.
Five dollars really bought me something.
Not a joke.
Not a decoration.
A witness.
A friend.
A reminder that while I am constantly trying to become something, some things don’t need to change at all.
He is too big to explain to other people.
And maybe that is the point.
He doesn’t have to make sense.
He just has to stay.
Love that story!
This was a delight to read. I'm happy for Ted's existence, and so happy that you bring him along for your life!