"When my cat Squiggles died, I didn't just "lose a pet." I lost a part of my identity, my greatest source of comfort, and my sense of home. Squiggles was the one constant in my life through every milestone, every heartbreak, every version of myself I grew into over the course of two decades. I had her since the moment she was born, and for almost twenty-two years, Squiggles was my constant companion, my emotional support, my soul-kitty."
"As a therapist, I tried to apply all of the coping mechanisms I've learned over the years. But the human in me wanted to reject them all. I was just too deep in my grief. So I turned inward. And over the past two years, I've been learning how to live with the loss of my soul-kitty. Not get over it. Or try to forget. But live with it."
"I knew the loss of Squiggles was going to be devastating one day, but knowing it didn't make it easier. What it did do was help me validate just how deeply it hurt. I didn't try to hide how sad I felt. I cried every day for weeks. I canceled plans. I moved slowly. And instead of shaming myself for how awful I felt, I tended to the pain."
Squiggles, a cat of nearly twenty-two years, provided constant companionship, emotional support, and a sense of home; her death created profound loss of identity and comfort. Professional coping knowledge offered little relief, and intense grief led to withdrawing inward rather than attempting to "get over" the loss. Over two years, the owner learned to live with the absence, honoring the bond instead of erasing it. Validating the pain included crying, canceling plans, moving slowly, and refusing shame. The mourning experienced resembled disenfranchised grief, where social recognition is limited even though the loss remains deeply real and impactful.
Read at Tiny Buddha
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