Navigating the Holidays While Grieving a Pet

While the world outside is bright and cheery, the silence inside my house is deafening. 

On December 11, I had to say goodbye to my cat, sweet Wokka. At 19 years old, she was the most loving, happy-go-lucky soul with a tiny bit of sass I have ever known. She was the first pet I’ve ever had for more than a decade. She became “my” cat the second my husband introduced us (sorry, not sorry, Owen). 

Losing her hasn’t just left a hole in my heart; it reopened a wound I thought had scarred over. It has been four years this month since we lost her brother, suddenly. I feel triggered, raw, and– to be completely honest– furious at the rest of the world for continuing to spin. 

This past year has, arguably, been one of the hardest of my life. I have had significant medical issues. I watched my grandfather take his last breath on the anniversary of the day I lost my pregnancy the year prior. It has been a relentless cycle of grief and physical toll.

Saying farewell to Wokka feels like the crushing culmination of all that heartbreak. 

In some ways, the grief for her feels even sharper than the loss of my grandfather. This isn’t to diminish the profound sadness I feel for him or the space he held in my life. Rather, it is a reflection of the different kind of void a pet leaves behind. 

Wokka was a constant, physical presence in the intimate corners of my daily existence. She saw me through the surgeries, the losses, and the quiet hours of recovery. When you lose the creature who sat with you through your darkest physical pain, who was there for every morning coffee and every late-night sob, the loss is visceral.

The hardest part of losing a pet isn’t just the big moments. It’s the tiny routines that suddenly have nowhere to go. I find myself doing things that make no sense to anyone else. I can’t bring myself to clean up her paw prints off the floor. I refuse to clear her fur from her brush. I even find myself looking at a scratch on my hand, a tiny mark she left behind, wishing it would never heal because when it fades, another physical piece of her goes with it. 

The house is full of phantoms. I think I hear a meow in the middle of the night. Then, while watching TV, I hear a cat meow and I instinctively look around to see where she is. I can’t bring myself to sit in the recliner because she is not resting on the arm as she always did; it feels like trespassing on her space. 

Going through the trials I’ve endured this year has changed me. It has helped me let go of the "people-pleaser" within and live more authentically. I no longer have the energy to pretend for the sake of other people’s comfort.

I went to a holiday party recently, three days after I held her in my arms as she drifted off to her final sleep. It was not a place I wanted to be. The moment I walked through the door, I blurted out “I’m not in a jolly mood. My cat just died.” Society often tells us not to share our grief, to keep it “private” so we don’t dampen the festive spirit. If I’m fighting the urge to tell a stranger in the store that my cat died yesterday, it’s because that is my current reality. I am raw. And I’ve decided that’s okay. 

There is a specific kind of trauma in the “to do list” of a pet’s death. 

1. The Deliveries: Hearing the heavy thud of a litter delivery on the porch because I couldn’t cancel the autoship fast enough. 

2. The Donations: Bagging up the food we already had to take to the animal shelter, feeling like I’m giving away pieces of her. 

3. The Care Instructions: Sitting down to write notes for my aunt who will be a pet sitter for us while we travel for the holidays, and realizing I don’t have to include instructions for Wokka this time. 

And then there is the dread. I am currently paralyzed by the thought of going to pick up her ashes and the clay paw prints they made for us. I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to be reminded of the last place I held her while she was still warm, still breathing, still mine.

Grief is rarely “clean”. It’s messy and full of complicated feelings. I feel guilty for all the times she annoyed me (as cats tend to do), and right now I’d give anything for her to be here to annoy me just one more time. Then there is Luna, my dog. My heart breaks for her. I see her looking for her sister. She randomly threw up the day after Wokka passed, and it made me spiral. Is she okay? Is she sad? Will something happen to her next? 

But as I sit with this heavy grief, I’ve realized something: this pain is a reminder of how fiercely I love my life and every soul in it. You don't hurt this much for something that didn't matter deeply.

To those of you who have supported me through the surgeries, the losses, and now the goodbye to my 19 year old girl—thank you. I love you all so much.

Even as I mourn Wokka today, I am holding onto a sliver of hope for the new year. I am looking forward to a new career doing meaningful, impactful work, and I am hoping for better health. But for now, I am going to let myself be sad. I’m going to leave the paw prints on the floor for a little while longer.

If you see me this season and I’m not wearing a smile, please understand. For some of us, the holidays aren't about what’s under the tree; they are about the many years of love that we are now learning to carry in a different way.

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