On Pet Loss: Is It a Betrayal To Stop Crying?
Updated: Oct 1
Circa 2018.
I’ve always found a certain beauty in being in a state of brokenness.
A silent, peaceful grace where reality grazes somewhere between the gutting truth and a surreal sense of twilight anesthesia.
Life slows down. You realize things. You see things – truths, moments of gratitude and devastation, regrets. You feel.
Like a dog nestled beneath a heavy down comforter, I’m anchored in bed. A predawn darkness and chill in the air bring heaviness that makes it hard to move. Buried halfway down the bed, head tucked under the covers, body contorted into a primitive fetal position. Safe. Protected. Bubble-wrapped against the world.
8 years later – 2026.
After Tovi died, I cried all the time. I didn't just cry. I took pride in my tears. I wore them as a badge of honor. I wanted the world to see how broken I was.
Something about the tears felt seductive. Comforting. A momentary escape, like the gentle, predictable rhythm of swimming laps in an empty pool. A facial deeply cleansing my soul.
The tears – this specific kind of deep, aching pain - were my last connection to Tovi, and I held onto them for dear life.
But as time passed and the natural progression of grief did its thing, the tears became harder to access. My ability to cry on demand felt like losing a superpower. I wasn’t breaking out in tears at the sound of his name. I didn't find myself flooded with emotions as I drove past our favorite hiking trail. As I entered a season of tear drought, I wanted to be transported back to the time of inconsolable tears because I felt connection there.
I worried that if I stopped crying, it would mean something. That it would signify I moved on. And if I couldn’t wear my pain, the world wouldn’t know how much I hurt. The loss would no longer be the defining feature of my life.
I find it disturbingly satisfying to pick at scabs, but I wasn't able to manipulate the healing of an emotional wound the same way. And not for lack of trying. I would replay the very specific scenes of our life that I was sure would bring them on, but it didn’t feel the same. Forcing tears didn’t have the same effect. It wasn’t because I didn’t still carry a deep sadness, but I wasn’t “as” sad. The loss wasn’t as raw.
Over my journey with grief, I’ve learned that as we change, we experience the same memory differently. We can only experience emotions within the natural context of who we are and where we are at any given moment. There's no remote control to adjust the volume or change the channel. The intensity can't be artificially extended, just as it can't be artificially stopped, and fighting that truth only added another layer to the pain.
So, I let the pain be.
The loss of tears brought a new grief.
It did mean something.
I did lose a type of connection: The sharp, deep, stabbing, painful-to-the-touch flinch of memory. I mourned a time when the tears brought that painfully beautiful cascade of emotions.
But it wasn't the terrible tragedy I believed it would be. Grief lives beside us and it's shape doesn't diminish the loss. I can't stop myself from growing any more than a snake can stop its skin from shedding. I look back and see it as a remarkable act of self-care and self-preservation to have walked through the messiness of grief and surrender to the process, because – for me - that intensity of connection wasn’t compatible with living in my After.
In time, I found that while it have felt like the strongest connection, it wasn't the only way to connect. I don’t feel the urge to pick at the scab anymore because I know it won't elicit the same reaction. Today’s connection doesn’t show up with as much turbulence. What once derailed me now presents as a quiet, gentle, steady presence in the background of my life.
In this new version of “Remembering,” a smile graces my face. Like a child playing in a pile of crisp leaves, I fall into memories and replay scenes from the version of myself that was actively Tovi’s mom. A deep gratitude for that time in my life sits beside an acceptance that it has ended. That doesn’t mean I don’t miss it, though, or that the loss doesn’t break my heart.
I just wear it differently.
It's a tattoo on my forearm, a locket of his hair around my neck. It’s the still bothersome tear in my shoulder from the time I held tightly to his leash while he dragged me through the woods because, for the life of me, I wouldn’t let him go. It's woven into every word I write. And, even if I had none of these tangible reminders, the most sacred place the memory exists is in my heart, and I’m eternally grateful for the scar that allows me to safely visit.
As always, my writing is based on my own opinions and experiences and should not be taken as fact or considered professional advice.
-Elizabeth Weiner
Visit my website, Hard Pet Days, for more insights on pet love and loss.
Related work:
On Pet Loss: Coping With Traumatic Endings: So many “what-ifs.” So many “I shouldn’t haves.” So many wishes for do-overs.
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