Chapter 14 • Compassion Fatigue in Grief and Animal Rescue

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Compassion fatigue isn’t from caring too much. It’s from feeling the pain and stopping there. When we let ourselves grieveal all the way through to love, our heartbreak becomes clarity, courage and self-care.

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A Life of Bravery

I think by now, you know, that there is no beginning and no end to grief in life. If we are going to be brave and love, like really love, we’re going to know grief. And if we’re really brave, like Capital B Brave, we love so many. Not just those in our home. But those we become connected to in so many ways.

The story I want to share with you isn’t about the compassion fatigue I felt after Ellie passed. Even though I did feel it. And it’s not about the compassion fatigue that kicked my ass while she was still alive. Watching Ellie struggle to stand was devastating. I cried nearly every day.

It’s about three dogs I never even met.

The first is Mollybear.

Mollybear

I first learned about Mollybear on Instagram, through a Dodo video. And it just cracked my Huge Heart wide open. Mollybear lived alone on a vacant lot in Nashville for nearly seven years, chasing squirrels, eating trash, avoiding people. Locals tried to help, but no one could get close. Then the lot was scheduled for construction, and one extraordinary woman named Ryan Graney decided she was going to do something.

She showed up. Every day. After work. Gently, patiently, with food and love, earning Molly’s trust one meal at a time. Eventually, after months, Molly let her get close. Then one day, she appeared on Ryan’s street, almost like she chose her. Ryan started feeding her in the front yard. Molly stayed. She guarded the house while Ryan was gone, and ran behind her car when she came home.

Still, Ryan waited. She never forced it. She just kept showing up. And over a year later, Molly finally followed her into the backyard, and Ryan quietly closed the gate.

Ryan then left the back door open for months, giving Molly space to explore the house at her own pace. And then one sweltering night during a heat wave, Ryan put Benadryl in a hot dog, waited for Molly to fall asleep, and carried her inside. When Molly woke up in the air conditioning, she was finally “home”.

Ryan and Mollybear, during their last snow season together

Over the next few years, Mollybear flourished. She danced for breakfast. Learned to play from Ryan’s other dog, Bronco. Fell into line with Ryan’s sixteen-year-old chihuahua, who ran the house. She became a loyal, protective, deeply bonded companion. Together, they even overcame cancer. Molly had nasal sarcoma, went through radiation, and lived eighteen more beautiful months.

On January 26, 2023, Mollybear passed peacefully, belly in the snow, snowflakes falling gently around her. She left exactly as she lived: on her own terms, wild, free, and deeply loved.

I never met Mollybear, but I’ll never forget crying buckets from miles away as I watched Ryan’s posts that Christmas, the one she knew would be their last together. While the rest of her family went away for the holidays, Ryan chose to stay home with Mollybear, sharing quiet, precious moments of snow, good food, and the simple miracle of their love.

I’ll also never forget the day Mollybear passed. I cried many times that day. At first, they weren’t joyful tears, they hurt. My whole body ached with the beauty and heartbreak of it all. But I didn’t resist. I kept allowing myself to feel it, to let the love and grief move through me. The next day, as I saw Ryan’s updates on Instagram, I continued to open, to feel and love both Mollybear and Ryan, fully, with my whole being. Within a few days, I still cried when I thought of them or saw the posts, but now the tears felt different, pure joy. The pain had transformed into something vast and blissful, like love itself moving through me. That experience became another profound reference point for me: a living reminder of how, when we let ourselves feel pain all the way through, it becomes love.

This story undoes me, in the best possible way. I’ve learned that the stories that move us most mirror something tender and true within our own lives.

Of course, Mollybear’s story reminds me of Ellie and of Fenix. They too were abandoned, left behind and heartlessly discarded. And yet, despite all odds, they found their way to love. To safety. To home. There’s something profoundly moving about that, the way resilience and grace seem to live side by side in the hearts of those who’ve suffered the most.

And what also moves me is how their stories mirror my own self-rescue. I see myself in their journey, the quiet endurance, the hope that refused to die, the longing for love that finally found its way home.

When I first began to grieveal my mum, decades later, my inner child felt just like Mollybear: abandoned, starving for love, but scared. She needed time, space, and consistency. So I showed up. Not just once, but again and again, with patience, with kindness, until Little Zoë could finally feel safe in the world. Until she could laugh again. Dance. Trust. Be herself.

For me, it’s the love, patience, and trust Ryan gave to Molly that echo how I’ve learned to love myself. And maybe that’s true for you too. Because here’s what I’ve come to understand: we don’t fall in love with animals like Mollybear, or Fenix, or Ellie by accident. We love them because something in us already knows what it means to be brave. We recognize their courage because it lives in us too, the courage to keep loving when it would be easier to close, to keep choosing freedom even after heartbreak, to keep believing in love no matter how many times it’s been lost.

You love the animals you encounter, yes, because they’re extraordinary, but also because you are. You are courageous, resilient, and perfectly imperfect. And somewhere deep inside, you already know that the love you see in them has always lived in you.

And the more you feel, claim and experience that Love, the less drained and fatigued we are.

Two Stray Dogs in Kern County

One day, I saw a video online that enraged and then broke me. It was taken in Bakersfield, California, grainy footage from across a parking lot. Two stray dogs were being beaten by an animal control officer. They were kicked. Beaten. Dragged. Slammed into a truck. They couldn’t even stand once they were inside. And they weren’t fighting. They were cowering. Terrified.

The injustice. The helplessness. It was too much. Maybe for the first time, I let myself grieve what I was feeling for a dog I had never met. Not just feel it, but truly grieveal. I cried. I screamed. I sobbed. And like grief so often does, it opened the door to even older pain. Memories of being hit as a child surfaced. I held Little Zoë inside of me and let her cry, too.

And then I picked up those two dogs in my heart. I sent them love. I connected with them just like I connect with Ellie. And for the first time, I wasn’t paralyzed by the situation. I didn’t spiral into helplessness or grief that left me curled up on the couch. Instead, I moved. I acted. I became a voice for the two dogs I was grieving. This wasn’t about being inspired, it was about being resourced. I suddenly had clarity. I knew what to do. And even more shocking? I had the energy to do it.

Before, I often felt too emotionally drained to stay connected long enough to be of service. But this time was different. Because I had processed the pain instead of absorbing it, I found myself naturally able to follow through, with presence, power, and peace. It shifted me. I didn’t feel powerless anymore. I felt clear. Energized. Mobilized. And from that place, I took action. I made calls. I reached out to people in the Fenix community. I helped share the video. Others did too. There was a groundswell.

And those dogs? They were saved. They were adopted. They’re alive and loved now. That day changed me forever. Because when I let myself grieveal, I didn’t shut down—I showed up.

Before that moment, I would see horrific stories online and simply scroll past. I might shed a tear, but I wouldn’t stop to actively grieveal dogs I didn’t “know.” And of course, we can’t do that every time, we’d never. But sometimes, our Huge Heart asks us to pause, to be with a beloved animal in that moment, to feel their suffering, and to love them completely.

And if we do, if we grieveal in even some small way, we unlock something powerful: energy, clarity, courage. We stop feeling helpless. And instead of becoming drained or fatigued, we start feeling whole and full again.

From that fullness, we are sometimes called into action. Not always, we cannot respond physically to every being who suffers. But the more we activate the essence of our Huge Heart when we’re hurting, the more capacity we have to act when our Soul truly calls us to.

You Deserve to Be Cared For, Too

If you’re here, it’s because you love animals deeply. And that kind of love, while beautiful, can also bring a lot of heartache. From seeing animals suffer in the world, to the personal grief of your beloved animal passing into Spirit, being this open-hearted and compassionate can feel like a lot to carry.

This chapter will explore compassion fatigue in a more general sense, how it shows up in our day-to-day lives, especially for those of us who feel deeply and care fiercely. Then we’ll move into what it looks like in the wake of “loss”, when grief pushes us to our limits, and it’s hard to even know how to function, let alone take care of ourselves.

Whether you’re still in the throes of fresh grief, or simply feeling the cumulative weight of caring so much for so long, this chapter is here to remind you: You’re not broken. You’re just full of love. And your huge and hurting heart deserves love too.

What is Compassion Fatigue?

Compassion fatigue is often described as the cost of caring. But in my experience, and in much of the newer research and understanding, that’s not quite accurate. What we call compassion fatigue isn’t actually fatigue from compassion. True compassion is inexhaustible. What exhausts us isn’t the heart’s response, but the mind’s attachment to misbeliefs that leave us unlovable and powerless. And or to the resistance to feeling and actively loving, which drains our energy. Compassion fatigue also hits us when we allow our body to feel suffering, but don’t allow our heart to activate and feel our loving too.

Think about it. We’d never watch a child cry without rushing in to comfort them. We’d never see a dog limping in pain and just stand by, we’d kneel down, reach out, and do whatever we could to help. When we feel the pain of an innocent being, our Huge Heart gets activated and sends a warm radiation of energy out from our heart chakra, and that energy often also ignites us into loving action and service.

So why do we think it’s okay to feel the suffering in our own lives, or in someone else’s, without also loving what’s hurting?

If we’re going to empathically connect with the suffering of another, or our own, we must allow our Huge Heart to activate our Loving for them, and ourselves, otherwise our energy drains.

Whether it’s your own grief or the suffering of another, the process is the same.

So here’s the challenge:

Whenever you feel sadness, suffering, or pain, yours or another’s, complete that experience by feeling your loving for whoever’s hurting.

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Feel your kindness, your compassion, your connection as fully as you can.

Then notice:

Do you feel less drained, more hopeful, more buoyant than before?

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I notice the difference every day, especially on social media. If I’m going to scroll and take in what’s happening, I have to follow what I feel with love. Because my feed is filled with animal activism, I often see dogs at risk of euthanasia, or the suffering of dolphins, elephants, or monkeys exploited for tourism, the cruelty of factory farming, or the destruction of our oceans through bottom trawling. When I see and feel that suffering, I take a moment to close my eyes and feel my loving for them. I imagine being with those beings in my Rainbow Sanctuary, hugging them, holding them, loving them wholeheartedly. And when I’m done, I feel hope. Not exhaustion.

It’s the same practice I use in grief. It’s been over a year since Ellie passed, and this morning the song “Split Screen” by Kings of Leon came on while I was making Fenix’s breakfast. I listened to that song driving Ellie to her MRI. I played it over and over the weekend she passed. It will forever connect me to that time I had to let her fur body go. And it doesn’t matter how much joy and connection I feel now with her, that song still touches the part of me that will always ache to have her here in fur form. So I let it. I let myself sob like it happened yesterday. I let myself rage for not being able to keep her longer. And then, when the wave passes, I move toward love. I shift my focus, just slightly, from the pain of missing her to the love I have for her. They’re always side by side. It’s an easier shift than you might think. I focus on the miracle of what we shared, the magic of how deeply we’re still connected.

It’s such a small shift, but it changes everything. Over time, it gets easier. Because the truth is, our love is never far away, it’s only a breath away from the pain.

That’s what I mean when I say:

if we’re going to feel, we have to love alongside it.

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Why Compassion Fatigue Is So Common

In my experience, compassion fatigue is so widespread for two main reasons.

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You Are Sensitive and You Had a Juicy Childhood

Have you ever wondered why you love animals so deeply? Why their suffering hits you so hard? I believe many of us who feel this kind of love for animals have two things in common: We’re highly sensitive and empathic. And we had a juicy childhood. By juicy, I mean a childhood that was rich in challenge, complexity, and opportunity for deep growth and healing.

Being highly sensitive is a spiritual gift. But if your sensitivity wasn’t honored when you were young, it may have started to feel more like a burden. Something to hide. Something to push down just to survive. Maybe your big emotions were “too much.” Maybe you learned to shrink yourself to avoid rejection. Maybe your truth wasn’t welcomed, so you learned to dishonor it in order to feel loved.

But animals? They bypass all of that. Our love for animals cracks us wide open. We can’t hide our sensitivity from them. We can’t numb it around them. They bring it roaring back, in the most beautiful, and sometimes most painful, ways. That same sensitivity that helps us love so deeply is also what makes us hurt so deeply. And unless we’re given tools to process those emotions, care for ourselves, and come back to center, we burn out. We love big… and then we collapse.

Why It Feels “Wrong” to Do Anything But Suffer, When Others Are Suffering

This is important to name. When we see suffering, especially the suffering of innocent beings like animals, it can feel wrong, even selfish, to focus on our pain. We think, They’re the ones suffering. I’m safe and comfortable.

But here’s what I’ve learned: the suffering we witness often awakens the unhealed pain within us, the part that once felt powerless, unseen, or unloved. That’s why it hurts so deeply. And if we ignore that part, we stay stuck. But when we give ourselves permission to feel, both for them and for ourselves, something miraculous happens. Our pain transforms into purpose. Our compassion becomes energy. We stop drowning in the suffering and start rising with Love.

It can also feel almost careless to focus on invisibly loving someone while they’re suffering, as if that’s not enough. But in truth, when we allow our hearts to open and send Love, we become more resourced, not less. That invisible act strengthens us. It gives us the clarity, courage, and energy to show up in real, tangible ways.

I’ve often wished I had the time, energy, and resources to save every animal in need, and every human too, while I’m at it. But I don’t. None of us do. And yet, when I allow for the possibility that life isn’t random, that there’s a deeper design at work, it becomes clear that maybe part of our purpose here is to love what we cannot physically touch.

Because there is so much suffering in this world. So much injustice. So much unnecessary pain. If it’s impossible to respond to it all with our hands, perhaps we’re here to respond with our hearts, to feel, to empathize, and to send our Loving invisibly.

All I can say is: it works. I used to feel drained and overwhelmed by the suffering I saw. But when I began intentionally feeling and sending my Loving toward whatever pain crossed my path, something shifted. I stopped collapsing into heartbreak, and started transforming it into healing… and Love-inspired action.

Why Grievealing Heals Compassion Fatigue

When we don’t grieve, we bottle up the pain. It builds inside us. It drains our energy. It quietly shuts us down. But when we allow ourselves to feel, and then flood those feelings with compassion, we clear the emotion. We create space for our next breath. Our next step. Grievealing is what clears the fog. It gives us back our clarity. Our courage. Our capacity.

And there’s a deeper science to why this works. When we practice self-compassion during emotional pain, the brain activates the parasympathetic nervous system—the body’s calming and restorative branch that helps us feel safe and grounded. This activation helps regulate the stress response and supports the nervous system in shifting out of survival states (fight, flight, freeze, or fawn), and back into a sense of connection and safety.

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