The first morning is the worst. You wake up and for one blessed second, you forget. Then you see the empty space at the foot of the bed where she used to curl up. You go to make coffee and automatically reach for her food bowl. That’s when it hits you all over again.
When my cat, Mocha, passed away last spring, I wasn’t prepared for how physical the grief would feel. It was a literal ache in my chest. The house didn’t just feel quiet – it felt wrong. For fifteen years, her morning purr had been my alarm clock. Now there was only silence.
What surprised me most was how embarrassed I felt about how deeply it hurt. “She was just a cat,” I kept telling myself. But she wasn’t. She was the constant through three apartments, two relationships, and one global pandemic. She was family.
The Things People Say (And What Actually Helped)
Well-meaning friends tried to comfort me with the usual lines:
-
“You can always get another cat” (As if she were a broken appliance to replace)
-
“She had a good long life” (True, but not comforting)
-
“At least she’s not suffering” (Also true, but my suffering was just beginning)
The most helpful thing came from my friend Sarah, who simply texted: “I know how much you loved her. Tell me your favorite Mocha story.” So I told her about how Mocha would “help” me work by sitting on my keyboard whenever I was on deadline. For the first time all week, I laughed through my tears.
Creating a Memorial That Felt Right
After a week of avoiding the corner where her scratching post used to be, I realized I needed to do something. But the traditional pet urns and engraved stones didn’t feel like Mocha. She was more of a sun-puddle-on-the-floor kind of cat.
So I planted a catmint bush in a sunny spot in the yard. It felt right – something living that would grow and change, just like our relationship had. Sometimes when the breeze moves through it, I like to imagine it’s her saying hello.
The Guilt That Comes With Grief
I struggled hard with guilt. Should I have taken her to the vet sooner? Did she know how much I loved her? Was there more I could have done?
My therapist told me something that stuck: “Guilt is grief’s bodyguard. It’s trying to protect you from the full force of the sadness by giving you something to control.” She encouraged me to write Mocha a letter, saying everything I wished I’d said. I did, and then I burned it in the firepit, watching the smoke carry my words upward. It felt like a release.
Finding Your New Normal
The grief doesn’t disappear, but it does change. The sharp, suffocating pain gradually becomes a dull ache. Then one day, you realize you’ve gone a whole hour without crying.
What helped me turn the corner was volunteering at the local animal shelter. I’m not ready for another cat yet, but I can help socialize kittens who need love. It’s a way to honor Mocha’s memory without trying to replace her.
It’s been eight months now. I still sometimes catch myself looking for her when I come home. But now the memory brings more smile than tear. The other day, I found one of her toys under the couch. Instead of crying, I put it on my bookshelf – a small reminder of the enormous love we shared.
If you’re reading this while grieving your own pet, please know this: Your pain is valid. Your pet wasn’t “just” anything. They were your friend, and it’s okay to mourn them. The empty space they left behind is just proof of how full they made your life while they were here.
