For many of us, our animals are not “just pets.” They are family.
Rabu was our family dog, and she held a very special place in my heart. Loving her was simple and unconditional. Losing her, however, was deeply painful in ways I did not expect.
At the time, I was living in Canada while everything was unfolding back home. I was not there when she died, and I did not get to say goodbye. Her absence showed up quietly but persistently, not only in moments of sadness, but in the small routines and rhythms of everyday life, especially when I visited my family.
What stood out to me most was how invisible this grief often felt. The bond I had with Rabu was real and meaningful, yet pet loss is not always fully recognized or understood. There can be an unspoken expectation to move on quickly, even when the loss feels profound.
About two months later, I returned home and visited her urn for the first time. It was a tender and grounding moment that reminded me how grief does not follow a timeline, and how our connection with our animals continues, even after they are gone.
Interestingly, my grief around Rabu-chan became clearer about a year later, when I was writing my thesis on pet loss. Through that process, I began to recognize and give language to an experience that had been quietly held in my body and heart.
Rabu’s death gently shaped the direction of my counselling work. It deepened my understanding of pet loss as a legitimate and often disenfranchised form of grief. This experience is one of the reasons I am drawn to supporting people who are mourning the loss of an animal companion.
In my work, I offer a compassionate space where this kind of grief is taken seriously and honoured. There is no comparison, no right way to grieve, and no need to justify the depth of your pain. Your relationship mattered, and your grief matters too.
If you are navigating the loss of a beloved animal, you are not alone. I hope this space can be one where your experience feels seen, respected, and gently held.