Grief is one of the most misunderstood human emotions, and it’s the one our loved ones often struggle with the most. Why? Because grief makes people uncomfortable.
In this post, I’m sharing my personal experience with pet loss—an often overlooked form of grief known as disenfranchised grief. This kind of grief often gets overlooked; for example, the end of a relationship after divorce, the changes brought by chronic illness or aging, late diagnosis of a learning disability as an adult, even the loss of missed opportunities or experiences we thought we’d have.
I wanted to write this because I know how isolating grief can feel, and I hear this echoed in therapy sessions with clients, especially when society doesn’t always recognize it. When we connect with others in a real, human way, that’s when healing starts.
Whether you’re going through grief yourself or supporting someone who is, the biggest lesson we can learn from man’s best friend is that you don’t have to ‘fix it’ to make a lasting impact. Simply being there, offering your presence and understanding, can make all the difference in the world to someone who is hurting.
Last fall, my heart broke when my soul dog, Oliver, passed away. To make it even harder it happened on his birthday—he was 13. He hadn’t been himself for a while, and when he stopped eating, I knew something was wrong. When I discovered he had cancer I made the hard decision and say goodbye.
Now, Oliver wasn’t just a dog. He was my buddy, my beautiful sheltie boy, and he came into my life at just the right time. I got him when I was 25, right after a long, unhealthy relationship ended. Heartbroken and lost, I moved into this super sketchy rental. Like, seriously sketchy—there wasn’t even a door separating the upstairs from the basement unit and lady was a nut (But that's a whole other story), Oliver stuck with me through every bad rental and finally into my own place two years later. His loyalty to me was easy to see, I was clearly his favorite human, from day one. Oliver helped me through that heartbreak, listened to me, grounded me, and made sure I got outside for regular walks.
And then, life moved on. I got married, and Oliver stuck by my side again—especially during my pregnancy when I had hyperemesis (aka puking all day, every day, for months). There was one night, sitting on the cold bathroom floor in the dark, just feeling like absolute crap, and there he was—my sweet boy, just hanging out with me like it was the best place in the world.
When my first baby was born, and I was hit hard with postpartum anxiety and depression, Oliver was there for all the middle of the night wake-ups, every diaper change. He made me feel like I wasn’t alone in all of it. And when my husband’s health took a turn for the worse, Oliver was there again, being his steady, reliable self.
As he aged the poor guy—he didn’t love our loud, unpredictable toddlers, but he tolerated them because he wanted to be near me. I did everything I could to protect his peace, to keep him comfortable as he grew older and crankier. Watching a friend grow old is tough, and when the time came, I made sure to be there for him just like he’d always been there for me. We took one last walk, and I stayed by his side until he passed peacefully with his best friend by his side. His ashes are in my dresser by my bed because, honestly, I know that’s where he’d want to be—right by my side. Someday, I’ll scatter them at his favorite dog park, where he used to run like the wind as a young, arthritis-free pup. That’s how I like to remember him—happy, running wild.
I thought I was prepared for his passing. I mean, life was so busy—being a working mom, my husband working away, balancing everything with an aging dog was a lot. I figured when the time came, I’d be fine. But let me tell you, the moment I had to say goodbye knocked me flat and I couldn’t stop crying.
At first, I did what so many of us do—I judged myself for feeling that way. Like, why was I this upset? But that just made everything worse, adding confusion and embarrassment on top of all the grief. But then, I turned to what I know works: radical acceptance and compassion. I kept reminding myself, “When someone you love dies, you’re supposed to be sad.” My feelings weren’t too much, they weren’t weird, and they definitely weren’t wrong. They were exactly what I needed to feel at that moment.
So, I let myself grieve. I took time off work, sat in that uncomfortable sadness, and when I accepted it, it started to lift. In the midst of all that pain, I swore to myself (and my family) that I’d never get another dog. Ever. And I meant it… at least at the time.
Fast forward to this summer, and my son suddenly became obsessed with getting a dog. We couldn’t tell if he wanted one or if he wanted to be one. One day, he begged me yet again to stop at the dog park so he could pet a dog. So there we were, with this high-energy four-year-old frozen like a little statue, just standing there hoping if he stood still long enough, a dog would come over to him. And like something straight out of a movie, it started to rain. But he stayed there, getting wet, saying, “Mommy, just five more minutes, please! I want to pet a doggy so bad.”
Touched? Yeah. Guilt-tripped? Maybe just a little. That night, I turned to my husband and was like, “Sooo, we need to get a dog!”. Not a question, just a statement.
The truth is, I wasn’t ready to get a dog. I told myself it would be my son’s dog, and I wasn’t interested in getting too attached. Maybe that was true… or maybe I was just trying to convince myself.
As I started looking for dogs, I couldn’t help but think of Oliver. He was far from a perfect dog. He howled, destroyed the inside of my car, and walked like a maniac, choking himself on the leash every single time. Toward the end, his semi blind ass even bit my leg by accident, leaving me with a scar. But he was my messed-up dented can of a dog, and I missed him so much.
When I found Teddy and made the leap to bring him home, it wasn’t that instant love at first sight moment you hear about. Sure, he was an adorable fluffball, but my logical brain was already kicking into overdrive: What if this is a mistake? What if he’s too much work? What if he gets lost, gets sick, or—worst of all—what if he turns into another dented can that tries to eat the kids?
Like with most things, I found comfort in hearing other people’s stories. Watching TikToks of people struggling with new puppies after losing their soul dogs made me feel less alone. I completely relate to that strange void. This new little fluff was here, and yet I couldn’t help but feel like something was missing.
But Teddy, being the little furball of sunshine that he is, won me over. We’re still figuring each other out, but I’ve realized something—I needed a dog more than I thought. Teddy has helped heal my heart with his unconditional love, his excellent listening skills, and the way he grounds me. Plus, he gets me outside every day for a walk, sometimes even twice a day. So, as it turns out, puppies really are magic. And somehow, in the middle of all my worries, Teddy’s puppy love is helping my heart heal in ways I didn’t even realize I needed.
Here’s a fun little therapist fact: Walking actually helps us process difficult emotions for a ton of reasons. One of the lesser-known ones is the bilateral stimulation we get when our eyes move around the scenery. It’s kind of like what happens in trauma therapies like EMDR and Accelerated Resolution Therapy. This simple eye movement helps us access our emotional brain and process deeply held pain faster.
Candice Mann is a Registered Master Social Worker and Certified ADHD Counselor with over 20 years of experience in the field. As the Founder and Therapist at Adrift Counselling, she specializes in adult ADHD and brings personal insight as a late-diagnosed ADHD adult.
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