Ten Years Later, I Still Miss Him

Grieving the loss of a beloved animal is real, and it doesn’t come with an expiration date.

Ten years ago today, I said goodbye to my favorite cat.

He wasn’t just a pet. He was my child. My shadow. My softest place to land.

He knew me in a way that most humans didn’t. He could read the subtle shifts in my energy, the way my breath changed when I was holding back tears. He knew when I needed company and when I needed space. He knew how to just be there, without needing me to explain myself.

I’ve had other animals in my life, each special in their own way, but this one… he was different. He was the one who met me in my becoming. The one who saw me through some of the hardest years of my life. The one I clung to when I thought I might break apart. The one who reminded me I was still worthy of love, even in my messiest moments.

He was, and still is, one of my greatest loves.

Even after all this time, I miss him.

Not in the raw, gasping way I did that first year.

Now, the grief is quieter, woven into the fabric of me. It surfaces in small, unexpected moments, a certain angle of sunlight across the floor, the sound of paws that aren’t there, the tug in my heart when I realize I still look for him sometimes.

That’s the thing about grief: it doesn’t disappear.

It evolves. It softens. But it stays.

Because love stays.

For those of us who have loved and lost animal companions, there’s a unique ache. One that’s not always recognized or honored. People often don’t understand how deep the bond can go. They think it’s something to “get over,” like replacing a pair of shoes. But it’s not that simple. You don’t just replace a soul connection.

When we grieve our pets, we grieve a million small things:

• The rituals of care.

• The shared routines.

• The way they made us laugh when nothing else could.

• The way they were simply there—steadfast, nonjudgmental, alive with love.

And so today, I’m holding space for that kind of grief. The kind that lingers and loops. The kind that resurfaces years later when you least expect it. The kind that reminds you how big your heart is because it opened, wide and trusting, to a being who couldn’t speak your language but knew you better than most.

If you’re grieving a beloved animal, I want you to know this:

Your pain is not silly.

Your grief is not an overreaction.

You’re not “too sensitive” or “too attached.”

You’re a person who loved deeply. And that’s something sacred.

Whether you lost your companion last week, last year, or decades ago, your grief still matters. It’s real. It’s valid. It’s a reflection of love. And love doesn’t expire.

Today, I will light a candle for him.

I will sit for a moment with my hand on my heart and whisper his name out loud. I will imagine him curled beside me, purring the way he used to when he knew I was hurting. I will thank him. Thank him for loving me so well. Thank him for choosing me. Thank him for sending me other fur-kids to fill the void he left behind.

If you have a name on your heart today, I invite you to speak it out loud, reply to this message, or write it in the comments below, if you feel moved. I would be honored to hold space with you for your beloveds, furry, feathered, scaled, or wild.

This is your reminder: Grief is not weakness.

It’s the echo of love that had nowhere else to go.

And even after all this time...

I still miss him.

Love today,

Heather 🌸

What animal companions are you remembering today?

What did they teach you?

How did they love you?