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I’ll never forget the day we said goodbye to Ellie. As I write this, tears are flowing, and I know many of you will relate because it’s about letting go of a loved one, whether human or animal. Even though I could see it coming, I wasn’t ready for her to go. It was so much harder than I expected.
The day started like any other. Around 5:30 am, Ellie would wake me up when she needed to go to the bathroom. I’d hear her move, and that was my cue to pick her up from her little crib next to my bed and take her to the bathroom.
That morning, she did well in the bathroom. But in her final week, she couldn’t get up on her own anymore. I’d hold her hips and help her move as best I could. I’d been doing this for over a month since she lost the ability to stand steadily.
At first, she could manage on her own, though not perfectly. I thought maybe it was just a phase—she’d grown so quickly from short, stubby legs to longer, lankier ones. But it wasn’t just a phase.
I know I’m focusing a lot on how Ellie went to the bathroom, but it was such an intimate part of our time together. It was incredible to be needed by her in such a deep way. Learning to move with her, to understand her, became a beautiful dance. Some days were frustrating, and some days we were perfectly in sync, moving as one.
On the day she passed, we danced with grace and elegance.
I brought her back into bed with me for an hour after that. I’d meditate, and she’d either doze off or play with her toys and teething chews, nestled against my side. I miss that hour more than anything. It was a peaceful time, and I knew she felt safe and loved with me.
On our final day together, we spent some time in the backyard. I helped her move around, supporting her as she sniffed and explored. After that, we drove to Ventura for her MRI, about half an hour away.
She never liked the car. It always made her anxious, but that day, it was especially tough. Looking back, I can see she was getting worse.
Although I had hoped for a sweet final moment with her, I think that last experience helped me understand just what she was going through, so I could love her best by letting her go. When we arrived at the vet’s, I put her in her pram with her favorite toys and teething rings. But just as we got out of the car, a loud motorbike roared by, and Ellie reacted violently. She growled and became hyperactive. I held her close, but this time, nothing calmed her down. She wasn’t herself, and I couldn’t soothe her.
I desperately wanted a peaceful goodbye, but she was too agitated. It was heartbreaking to leave her with the veterinary staff in that state, but I was grateful knowing she’d soon be sedated for the MRI.
Around 11 am, I got the call. Ellie had severe hydrocephalus, a condition where fluid fills the brain and puts pressure on it, causing intense pain and fear. There was no cure, and it explained the changes in her behavior, her eyesight loss, and her growing aggression.
Nikki from SPARC, the rescue group that helped Ellie, asked about a stent, but it wasn’t an option. Ellie also had cerebellar hypoplasia, which made the condition even more complex. The vets and neurologists all agreed that putting a stent in would cause more pain without solving anything. Ellie was in so much suffering.
As hard as it was, the choice to let her go was also clear. I didn’t want her to suffer anymore. I knew it was time, even though part of me will never be okay with it. Letting go of someone you love deeply is never easy, no matter how much sense it makes.
We went back to the vet to say our final goodbye. We brought her favorite toys and treats, spending a little time with her before letting Dr. Higgins, the neurologist, know we were ready.
I do wish I could’ve had a final moment with her when she was herself. After the MRI, she was so drugged and “woozy.” Still, I’m thankful I got to say goodbye to her perfect little body—many don’t have that chance.
Looking back, I feel that our final morning together, our little bathroom dance, was a beautiful part of our goodbye. I’m grateful for that.
In the weeks that followed, grief overwhelmed me. I let myself cry, lie in bed, and inhale her scent still lingering on the sheets. I sobbed for days. I allowed myself to feel the ache of missing her.
I didn’t try to distract myself. I canceled everything and gave myself the space to be with the pain.
I didn’t reach for wine or binge on Netflix, even though I wanted to escape my body and the hurt I was feeling.
That first week was excruciating, but also strangely beautiful. It’s hard to explain, but I would shift between moments of profound peace, knowing she was free, and deep despair that scared me. I truly believe that by staying present with my grief, feeling it fully, I healed in ways I hadn’t expected. I was willing to be in my body, missing her fur body, and in doing so, I let myself both feel the pain, but also be overwhelmed by a joy and celebration for the profound and miraculous reality of our relationship. It was pure magic. Together, we were magic.
There is no magic, without mess.
And there is no true joy, love and meaning, without feeling pain and heartaches, fully in your physical body.
This chapter is all about being in your body. And if that sounds obvious—you’re not alone. How could we not be in our bodies? But the truth is, most of us spend more time in our heads than actually feeling and experiencing life through our bodies. Reference: Emotions Are Experienced in the Body
Grief, trauma, and deep emotions don’t just live in our minds—they’re stored in our nervous system, muscles, and even our breath. If we don’t allow ourselves to fully process them, they can manifest as tension, stress, exhaustion, or even physical pain. True healing happens when we shift from analyzing our emotions to actually feeling them in our body.
This chapter will help you reconnect with your body, move through grief with more compassion, and release old emotional patterns that may still be lingering.
One of the biggest gifts grief gave me—though I never expected it—was helping me step out of autopilot and truly live again.
So many of us move through life checking off responsibilities, doing what needs to be done, without ever pausing to ask: Is this how I want to be living?
For years, I dedicated myself to helping others—clients, loved ones, my partner, my rescue dogs. I was great at emotional self-care—processing my feelings, doing the inner work—but when it came to my physical well-being, I often neglected myself.
Then Ellie came into my life. Caring for her, a special-needs puppy, stretched me beyond what I thought I could handle. But when she passed, something profound shifted. All the time I had spent helping her—guiding her movements, holding her teething rings—was suddenly mine again. Instead of filling it with more busyness, I chose to keep it sacred. Mornings became moments for meditation, movement, and simply being instead of always doing.
Grief shook me awake. It made me reevaluate my priorities, helping me realize that presence isn’t just about emotional awareness—it’s about being in my body, moment by moment.
Grief isn’t just an emotion—it’s an experience that lives in the body. It can feel like tightness in the chest, a lump in the throat, exhaustion, or even chronic pain. When we try to suppress our grief, it doesn’t just go away; it settles into our nervous system, creating stress, tension, and sometimes illness.
Using an approach of compassionate and somatic grieving helps us work with the body instead of against it. Through breathwork and guided emotional release processes, it gently releases stuck emotions, allowing us to heal in a deeper, more natural way. This is especially powerful for pet loss because our bond with animals is so physical—we feel their warmth, their heartbeat, their presence. Losing them leaves an ache not just in our hearts, but in our bodies.
When we stop trying to think our way through grief and instead allow ourselves to feel it fully, we open the door to healing. The proven effectiveness of somatic therapy helps us reconnect with love, release pain, and find a sense of peace—not by forcing grief away, but by giving it the space to move through us.
Most people believe they are feeling their emotions, but more often than not, they’re actually resisting or distracting themselves from them.
When I ask clients how they feel about a situation, I often hear:
“I feel like my husband was really out of line.” Instead of actually feeling their emotions, they focus on blame, fixing, or analyzing the situation.
“I feel nothing, maybe tired.” They’re exhausted, not from the emotion itself, but from unconsciously repressing it.
Hopefully it's clear that they're thinking and resisting feeling.
This happens with grief too. When asked how they’ve been feeling, people often say:
“I found another one of Ralph’s toys on the floor, and pretty soon I started feeling low and hopeless. And that continued on all morning. I felt terrible all morning.” We often think that we’re feeling genuine emotion, because pretty quickly the act of resisting or suppressing emotion can be exhausting and even gut wrenching. And we can’t give ourselves the time, space and sacred loving support if we’re still doing the housework, or doing errands, or doing anything at all. We need to stop. Pause. And allow ourselves to feel.
The real source of distress isn’t the emotion itself—it’s resisting it. In my experience, emotions aren’t as overwhelming as they seem. Even deep heartbreak, when truly felt, is more manageable than the ongoing suffering of avoidance.
This is especially true for grief. If we allow it, grief expands us into greater compassion and love. But if we suppress it, that energy gets stuck. Over time, that suppression can lead to depression, anxiety, or even physical symptoms.
We don’t want to allow our pain into the foreground of our consciousness, so we avoid it and suffer with it being in the background leaking our energy and focus.
And here’s the irony—when we learn to fully feel our emotions, they move through us quickly. We often think we don’t have time to stop and process our feelings, but resisting them drains us far more than just allowing them to pass.
Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor, a Harvard-trained neuroscientist, found that the actual experience of an emotion lasts about 90 seconds.
“Just like children, emotions heal when they are heard and validated.” DR JILL BOLTE TAYLOR
When something triggers an emotional reaction, a chemical process happens in the body that lasts roughly 90 seconds. After that, any lingering emotional response comes from our thoughts—our choice to stay in the loop. Reference: Emotion lasts less than 90 seconds
This means that if we allow emotions to surface without resistance, they pass naturally. But when we suppress them or try to control them, they get stuck in loops—causing exhaustion, stress, and suffering.
Many people avoid grief because they fear that once they start feeling, the pain will never stop. But that fear comes from experiencing the resistance to grief, not grief itself. Once we learn to fully feel our emotions, we realize they move through us quickly—and often leave us with clarity, healing, and even a deep sense of peace.
Blame is one of the strongest ways we resist feeling. And when there’s no one else to blame, we turn on ourselves.
Losing someone we love is so overwhelming that we instinctively grasp for something—anything—to focus on, just to avoid feeling the full weight of our heartbreak.
If the vet made a questionable decision, we fixate on that.
If someone in our life wasn’t perfect, we obsess over their mistakes.
If no one else is at fault, we blame ourselves.
Blame gives us a false sense of control—the idea that if we just do everything right next time, we’ll never have to feel this kind of pain again.
But life doesn’t work that way.
Even if we were perfect, loss would still come. Every living being—dogs, cats, cows, birds, bees, and humans—will die. That’s the nature of life.
Yet we live in a world that convinces us otherwise. We’re constantly sold the idea that pain can be fixed, numbed, or avoided—through a product, a pill, or a distraction.
But grief isn’t something to fix. It’s something to feel. And when we do, it heals us.
And even if your loved one was unjustly taken from this life, fixating on blame and revenge will keep you locked in pain. Reference: Blame Doesn't Lead to Accountability
We often think that focusing on injustice is the right thing to do. But grief must come first. Otherwise, our actions are fueled by pain, not clarity.
“Blame is simply the discharging of discomfort and pain. It has an inverse relationship with accountability.” —DR. BRENÉ BROWN
If there’s accountability to seek or justice to pursue, as hard as it is, everything will flow better if you grieve first and take action second.
Think of it this way:
If you've been shot, your heart is bleeding out. You have two choices:
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