There are moments in life that bring you to your knees, moments that change the way you see love, connection, and loss. For me, that moment came when I had to say goodbye to my best friend, Buddy.
Some people might call it losing a pet. But for many of us, it’s not just that. It’s losing a family member. A child. A soul you shared your home, your routines, your laughter, and your heart with.
More and more people are choosing not to have children, and for many of us, our animals are our kids. The bond is powerful. It’s real. And it takes work, just like any meaningful relationship. Consistency. Time. Care. Understanding.
Buddy was my child for fifteen years. He went everywhere with me, to the office, on walks, on flights, in the car. He was my shadow, my constant companion, and the sweetest presence in every single day.
But love like that also means one day, your heart breaks in half.
Recently, I faced what every pet parent dreads: the moment when the body of your best friend starts to give out. Buddy’s spirit was strong, but his body couldn’t keep up anymore. Watching that happen was excruciating, knowing that his heart still wanted to live, still wanted to hang out in the sunshine and eat his favorite foods, but his body just couldn’t do it.
The last few days together were sacred. I cooked for him like a full-time chef, burgers, eggs, pumpkin, baby food, anything that might bring him comfort or joy. His last meal was a bite of macaroni and cheese. He looked up at me with those eyes that said everything words can’t.
And then, just like that, life changed.
We drove to the vet’s office that morning. I remember looking at the clock, it was 11:11 — and I told myself it was a good sign. I thought we were just going in for a shot to help his breathing. But as we walked toward the door, Buddy started to slow down. He circled once, looked at me, and I caught him before he fell.
The staff rushed him inside. I sat in a quiet room, shaking, waiting. They told me he was on oxygen. When I saw him, he looked peaceful, wrapped in a blanket, oxygen around his little snout. I held his paws,  the same paws I’d held a thousand times before, and whispered the words I’d said to him every day: “I love you, Buddy. You’re my best friend.”
It’s surreal, that moment. You know what’s happening, but part of you refuses to believe it. Because the truth is, our animals are pure spirit. Their bodies give out, but their essence never leaves us.
When Buddy passed, the room felt both empty and full at the same time. I knew he was gone from that body, but I could still feel him. I still can.
Walking out of the vet’s office without him, carrying only his collar, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I had imagined spending the day celebrating him, driving him around to see his friends, and giving him a goodbye party while he was still here. Instead, I walked out alone.
Grief has a way of making time stand still. It also brings reflection on what it means to love, to care, and to truly show up for another being. I realized that love doesn’t end with a heartbeat. It continues in memories, in gratitude, in every little thing they taught us about presence, joy, and unconditional love.
I know many of you reading this have gone through the same thing. You’ve held your animal in your arms, whispered those same words, and walked out of that clinic with a broken heart. You’ve tried to explain it to people who just don’t get it, who think it’s just a pet. But you and I both know, it’s not just anything. It’s everything.
So, if you’re in that place, in the grief, in the silence, in the in-between, I want you to know: I see you. I understand. And I honor what you’re feeling.
Don’t rush to fill the space. Don’t numb the pain. Let yourself feel it. Process it. Honor the life that shared yours so fully.
Buddy gave me fifteen years of unconditional love. I gave him everything I had. And that’s what matters.
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