If You’re Worried You’re “Grieving Wrong”
In the first few weeks after my dog passed, I remember thinking something must be wrong with me...
The tears came in waves — often at the sight of the little balls he loved to chase, or his leash hanging by the door. Sometimes it was the flip of that, and tears sprang up from moments of joy, perhaps while out on a walk or because of something funny I heard, and I instantly felt guilty.
How could I laugh when my heart was so broken?
Then there were the “nothing days.” Days where I felt nothing, thought nothing. Reveled in the detachment of being numb and hollow. Like the world had lost its color and relieved me of feeling anything.
At night, I searched online for answers. Wondered if my grief was “normal.” It didn’t feel normal. I knew no one who’d had a breakdown because of losing a pet.
I found very little online that validated my grief. It seemed everyone else in the world handled their sadness better than me.
But here’s the quiet truth I eventually learned:
Grief doesn’t follow a script, and there’s no single correct way to experience it.
But when you’re in it, that truth can be hard to believe.
The “Standard But Scary” Playbook
If you’ve ever caught yourself thinking, “This can’t be normal,” then it probably is.
Here are some of the feelings that often hit after we lose a beloved pet (that we’re usually not at all prepared for):
You might feel angry — at the vet, at fate, at yourself, or even (quietly) at your pet for leaving. Anger is grief’s way of protecting the heart from collapse.
You might feel relief — especially if your pet was ill or suffering. Relief doesn’t cancel love; it means your heart was holding tension for way too long.
You might feel waves of guilt — replaying “what ifs” and “if onlys.” Guilt is how our minds grasp for control when life feels uncontrollable.
You might laugh or feel joy — and then instantly question it, as I did. But those moments of emotion are not betrayals; they’re evidence that life still flows through you, and your pet’s memory is part of that energized current.
You might not cry at all — some people go frozen inside of their grief. But numbness is an ancient nervous system defense, not a lack of love.
You might feel physical pain — tightness in your chest, fatigue that runs bone-deep, or waves of nausea. The body carries grief, too.
You might revisit old losses — human or animal — that rise back to the surface. Grief, the stinker, often travels in bundles.
You might have vivid dreams — of your pet alive and well, or of searching for them and never finding them. Dreams are the psyche’s way of processing what the heart can’t yet hold in waking life.
Every one of these reactions feels uncomfortable, maybe even frightening when it’s happening.
We start to wonder if something is broken inside us.
But know that these are all forms of love, transformed. Grief is the way love metabolizes what it can no longer touch.
A Tiny Grounding Idea
The next time you catch yourself thinking, “I’m doing this wrong,” or “it shouldn’t be this hard,” pause for just a breath.
Place a hand on your heart, and say softly — even if you don’t fully believe it yet —
“This, too, is part of my grief.”
That small sentence is an anchor. It invites your humanity back into the present moment.
Whatever you’re feeling — sadness, irritability, laughter, emptiness — it’s simply your way of stewarding love across time.
Maybe that looks like crying at a random commercial. Maybe you’re angry that the world keeps spinning. Maybe you forgot for an hour that your pet is gone, and then crashed hard when you remembered. (This was me, a lot.)
Every person’s grief path looks different.
Your grief might be quiet or invisible to the outside. It could be loud and messy.
Some days, you might want to talk about it constantly. Other days, not at all.
You might express your feelings by continuing to do things you used to do with your pet, like sit in the garden or go on long walks. Or you might find yourself avoiding those spaces entirely.
All of it counts. All of it is right, though not easy.
But there’s no clear path to overcoming grief. No test to pass to prove your love.
What Helps Most
Healing doesn’t mean forgetting or “moving on.” It means integrating the love, the loss, and the lessons into a bigger version of who you are.
It means learning to trust your body’s signals instead of judging them. When tears come, let them. When the tears stop, let that happen too.
If you can add one small action into your routine this week, let it be this:
Notice without correcting.
The next time a feeling surprises you — relief, anger, guilt, even peace — don’t push it away. Just notice it. “Ah. Here’s this.”
Simply taking notice of your feelings builds compassion. Over time, compassion steadies you far more reliably than control ever can.
And somewhere in that compassion, something starts to soften.
You may even begin to sense — in an image, a memory, a phrase that floats through your thoughts — that your pet’s love is still near. Different, yes, but not gone.
Take this with you as you move about your day: Grief is a landscape, not a straight path. Some parts are steep and stormy, others unexpectedly gentle. But wherever you are on that terrain, there’s no wrong step. Every feeling you feel and acknowledge along the way is evidence of the bond that shaped your life.
You’re not grieving wrong.
You’re grieving because you loved right.
I’d love to hear from you.
Reply with one feeling you once thought was “wrong,” but now recognize as part of your grief.
Just one word is enough.
I only learned recently about anticipatory grief. And it’s already hard to deal with.