“Sometimes, the love we couldn’t receive or express finds its way back to us—wrapped in fur, carried by paws, and quietly teaching us how to heal.”
In 2016, I lost my father. It was sudden—an aneurysm took him shortly after he left the hospital. I still remember the moment I received the news. I was at the airport, about to leave the Philippines for the United States, focused on chasing a future I thought I needed.
My brother called. “Dad’s gone.”
I stood there, torn between two impossible choices—return home to grieve with my family or board the plane to a new life I had worked so hard to prepare for. I chose to go, trusting that my family could handle the funeral, which I paid for from afar. I left without a proper goodbye.
The truth is, my relationship with my father had always been complicated. He was strict, controlling, emotionally distant. We were never close, but we were civil. I loved him as a father, even when his love felt heavy, like something you carried rather than shared.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t mourn. I buried it all deep inside—tucked beneath survival, busyness, and the silent guilt of not being there. I moved on. At least, I thought I did.
Then, about a year later, healing came to me in the form of a tiny, joyful Yorkie Terrier. He was small but mighty, full of energy, and incredibly loving. I never imagined how deeply I could love an animal until I met him. He wasn’t “just a dog.” He became my family, my comfort, my child in every way that mattered.
He brought light into my life in a way no human could at the time. When days felt dull or overwhelming, he reminded me to pause. To laugh. To care. To feel. He filled a quiet void in me that I didn’t even know still existed.
But grief wasn’t finished with me yet.
When I moved back to the Philippines during the pandemic, travel restrictions meant I couldn’t bring him with me right away. I left him in the loving care of his “grandparents,” trusting he’d be safe until we could be reunited.
They loved him, no doubt. But they didn’t know the strict limits of his diet. They gave him snacks, treats—too much love in the wrong way. He got sick. And before I could return to him, he died.
It shattered me.
I couldn’t function. Everything around me turned gray. The world felt muffled, like I was walking through fog. That small dog, who had healed so much of my hidden grief, was suddenly gone—and with his death, something inside me finally broke open.
I cried for him.
But I was also crying for my father.
All the tears I never shed in 2016 came rushing out. All the guilt. All the unspoken hurt. All the what-ifs I had pushed away to stay strong.
My dog’s death cracked the wall I had built around my grief—and strangely, that was when I began to truly heal.
I understood then that healing isn’t always loud or visible. Sometimes, it walks beside you quietly, in the form of an animal who teaches you to feel again. To love without fear. To grieve without shame.
My dog didn’t just help me grieve my father. He taught me that vulnerability is not weakness—and that some losses leave holes we don’t ever fill, but we learn to live around them.
I still cry when I think about him. But now, I also smile.
Because I know that healing can come from the smallest creatures, in the quietest ways.
And if you’re grieving—whether it’s fresh or years old—I hope you find a soft paw, a gentle gaze, or a wagging tail to walk with you.
Sometimes, the most unexpected love becomes our greatest teacher.
With lots of love,
Ms. Aloha D. Shore
Have you ever experienced healing through the love of a pet or a quiet moment of grief? I’d love to hear your story. Share your thoughts in the comments below—your words might bring comfort to someone who needs it today
