The Soft Places: What Our Pets Teach Us About Love, Loss, and Letting In

Last year I had the honour and heartbreak of saying goodbye to my cat, Bella. She wasn’t just a cat—she was a tiny, purring master of presence, a mirror to my moods, and a comforting weight pressed against my side through countless quiet nights and chaotic days. Her passing opened a doorway to a kind of grief that is, in its own way, pure. Raw. Surprisingly sacred.

I’m no stranger to grief—personally or professionally—but this one surprised me. The ache of Bella’s absence curled up in the quieter parts of me, and with it came a wave of older, quieter griefs that had been waiting patiently for a chance to stretch and yawn and be seen.

Bella touched the lives of everyone who met her. She had this quiet, knowing way of being that disarmed people—whether they were animal people or not. When I moved interstate, she gracefully transitioned into a new phase of life, becoming a ‘house cat’ to my son’s 20-something housemates. And honestly? She had a ball in her retirement and embraced it all. She found fresh laps to warm, loud music to nap to, and an abundance of love to share in new and unexpected places. Bella was always generous with her affection and effortlessly adaptive—traits I aspire to myself.

You see, pets don’t just keep us company. They hold space for us. They meet us exactly where we are without trying to fix a thing. In many ways, they give us permission to feel, soften, and be just as we are—something we humans sometimes struggle to offer even ourselves, let alone each other.

Bella, like so many animals, had a way of attuning to my energy. She would know—without a single word—when I was spinning out, when I was grounded, when I was in my head or beautifully heart-open. There’s something about animals that bypasses the busy brain and goes straight to the soul. I don’t mean that in a “woo-woo” way (okay, maybe just a gentle shimmer of woo). It’s just… they know.

As a wellness practitioner, I often have the privilege of supporting people through the grief of losing a beloved animal. I can sit with them in that vulnerable space because I’ve lived it. I’m living it. I understand the weight of that particular silence when the paw-steps are gone. And I know the courage it takes to love again—even when it hurts.

Interestingly, Bella’s passing has gently opened me to the idea of welcoming another cat. Not to replace her (impossible)—but to continue the flow of that soft, soul-level connection. It's as though in her leaving, she cleared space in my heart to receive anew. Of course, I’m under no illusion that adopting a new cat will be tidy. There will be scratches (on furniture and heart), there will be mismatched expectations, and, hopefully, there will be moments of magic again.

Grief and love—they come from the same place. And animals, in their non-verbal wisdom, seem to understand this better than we do.

So if you’re reading this after losing your own beloved animal, I want to say: I see you. I honour that bond. And if you're someone supporting others through loss, or just wondering why this kind of grief feels so profound—know that it's because what you shared was real. Honest. Vulnerable. It was love in its purest form.

And maybe, just maybe, that kind of love cracks us open so that even more can pour in.

With tenderness (and a few tissues still nearby),

Bel x