My grief journey

It's said that grief is the other side of love; or rather, love that has nowhere to go. This is captured in a quote by Jamie Anderson:

Grief, I've learned, is really just love. It's all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.

My grief over losing Sylvio is complex. It's layered with an intense feeling of guilt, compounded by the swiftness of his decline and the unfairness of a life taken too soon.

Sylvio was only four and a half years old, so I'm also mourning the time we didn't have. I took his life for granted, assuming that he and Louie would grow old together. Of course, the future is promised to no one, but it's one thing to know this intellectually, another to understand it from the heart.

 

The first week felt like existing in a dream state, with everything happening in slow motion. Sleeping and eating were difficult. Louie was either glued to my side or walking around the house yowling for his brother.

One activity that brought me solace was tracking down every photo and video of Sylvio. I already had quite a few, but it wasn't enough. I lost so much footage to Snapchat, which I deeply regret. But I recovered photos and videos shared in other apps, text exchanges and house sitters.

As a hobby photographer, I tended to save the beautifully framed, well-lit portraits of him. But it's the everyday photos I recovered that I appreciate so much more. The imperfect, ordinary moments capture the life we'd shared in ways that posed portraits couldn't. I wanted every scrap of evidence that he had been here, that we had loved him, and that he had been part of our family.

 

The initial shock of losing Sylvio quickly gave way to pain and guilt. On repeat, my mind relived and reconstructed the previous weeks and months, clinging to every detail, every missed sign, and every sign I'd noticed but hadn't understood.

Objectively, there was so much I didn't know at the time. For example, changes in appetite are a red flag for cat illness. But in hindsight, it all seems so obvious. Why wasn't I better prepared? How could I have been so naive, even until the very end?

I spent hours analyzing the clinical summary and blood work results, trying to work out what illness Sylvio had, how he got it, and how much he might've suffered. I had long conversations with AI, running through alternate histories, timelines and outcomes. I needed to understand what had happened and whether anything could have changed the ending.

The what-ifs were endless. If only I'd brought him in sooner, he might have been saved.

My friend Amanda wisely told me that, eventually, I'd have to make peace with the unknown.

I'm also beginning to recognize the futility of my guilt. Repeatedly punishing myself for what I didn't know wasn't helping Sylvio, honoring him or changing what happened. My goal is to gradually transform that guilt into regret: something I can learn from and use to make different choices in the future.

  

Like the shifting tides of other emotions, periods of deep sadness came and went. Some routines returned more quickly than others. Cleaning and outdoor activity helped me feel more in control and balanced. Everything else, particularly anything that felt fun or required smiling, seemed superfluous.

I've since learned that this back-and-forth is a natural part of grieving. The Dual Process Model describes how we move between confronting our loss and engaging with everyday life. 

I reached out to friends and family, especially those who had experienced pet loss. I was looking for answers, reassurance, and probably absolution. I was met with an outpouring of love and generosity. My friend April drove across town just to take me for a walk.

I've come to appreciate the concept of "disenfranchised grief": grief that isn't fully recognized or understood by society, or given the same space as other kinds of loss. Pet loss can be particularly difficult in this respect. Our animals are family, and the bonds we form with them can be profound, but not everyone understands the depth of that relationship or the impact of losing it.

Recognizing this has helped validate the intensity of what I've been experiencing. Sylvio wasn't just a cat. He was part of our family, a companion to Louie, and a presence woven into the fabric of our everyday lives. His absence changed our home and our routines, as well as my understanding of the future I thought we had ahead of us.

 

My cousin Leanna shared that, from her experience, life must be lived forward but is only understood backward. Initially, I was reluctant to consider that Sylvio's death "happened for a reason" because it's unfair that he had to die young for me to learn something. But I'm beginning to see that, even when we can't make sense of a painful experience, we can choose what we take from it.

Losing Sylvio has prompted me to explore spirituality in a way I hadn't before. I've been reading about the ancient teachings of Tibetan Buddhism and considering what its philosophy might mean for my relationship with him. 

One idea I've encountered is that the connections we form with animals may extend beyond a single lifetime. Perhaps Sylvio and I have known each other in past lives, and will be reunited again in the future. I take comfort in the possibility that our relationship is part of something bigger, particularly because it was so short in this lifetime.

Another idea that I've found empowering is that I can dedicate any goodness I create to Sylvio. I've started a new routine of beginning each day with a short meditation and ending it with a prayer. I'm trying to be more generous and patient. 

These practices don't erase my grief or answer my questions. But they give me a way to channel my love for Sylvio into something constructive. Rather than getting stuck in what I wish I'd done differently, I can think about what I can do now.

 

My mental health coach, Elissa, has helped me understand that acceptance doesn't mean being okay with what happened. It means acknowledging reality, however painful, and gradually learning to live with it. The first step for me has been to "close the open tabs" in my mind: creating a tribute blog post and video, writing Sylvio letters, receiving his ashes, and holding a memorial service. 

Elissa explained that you don't necessarily move on from grief. Instead, you grow stronger and learn to carry it. The pain of grief may remain, but life gradually grows bigger around it. The loss doesn't have to shrink for there to be more room for other things.

 

As part of my newfound spiritual journey, I find myself wondering where Sylvio is now. Is he at the Rainbow Bridge, or has he been reborn into another life? Perhaps neither, perhaps both. 

Regardless, I feel his presence everywhere: in his favorite places around the house, when the sun comes out, during a gentle breeze, when it starts to rain. Sunrise, sunset. And of course, rainbows.

There's a concept in grief called "continuing bonds," which recognizes that maintaining an ongoing connection with someone we've lost can be a healthy part of grieving. The relationship changes, but it doesn't have to disappear.

For me, Sylvio is part of every bike ride and every swim. He's in the memories I revisit, the rituals I've created, and the choices I make about the kind of person I want to be. I'm comforted by the idea that I don't have to move on without him, but that I can carry him with me.  

My colleague Amy shared this wisdom from Albus Dumbledore:

 

As I continue on my grief journey, I still wish we'd had more time together. I still have questions I may never be able to answer, and days when the guilt and sadness are overwhelming. I don't think this journey has a neat endpoint where all those feelings vanish.

But I'm slowly learning that I don't have to solve every mystery, or stop missing him, to keep living. Sylvio's life was far too short, but the love we shared was real, and it continues to shape me. 

In that sense, I haven't run out of ways to love Sylvio. I'm still finding them.

For Sylvio

We lost our darling boy, Sylvio, in the early hours of Sunday, September 6th. This post was written in his honor.

Two and a half years ago, shortly after Louie moved to Australia, Tom and I felt ready to adopt a second cat. And Louie was desperate for a playmate. I checked out a couple of local shelters online, but Sylvio (called Dennis at the time) was the first cat I met. At two years old, he was curious and sweet. It was Easter Saturday, and I simply couldn't leave him behind.

 

Sylvio was a tuxedo cat, so he was always dressed to the nines. Very dapper. His thick coat was the softest velvet. Black with a white chin, neck and paws, patches of white fuzz on his belly, and a sprinkle of white between his eyes. Pink paw pads. Bright green eyes, ears soft but sturdy. He had a wide, black nose and the most magnificent whiskers. 

 

Sylvester felt like a fitting name. Although he had many nicknames, including Syl, Sylvie, and Mr. Black.

From the beginning, Sylvio was relaxed and easygoing. Nothing really bothered him (even the vacuum). 

  

Tom and I reckoned that he probably had an Aussie accent, though the voice we used to imitate him was a bit dopey.

 

 

 

He was very independent but also affectionate. Friendly but not a lap cat. He liked sniffing your hand before receiving pets, and giving hard, head boops. He didn't enjoy being picked up, but tolerated it.

   

 

He'd usually be at the door when we came home. Unlike Louie, he was quick to greet guests, always the favorite. 

 

Sylvio loved basking in the sun, which would turn his coat reddish-brown. 

 

 

When he overheated, he would stretch himself against the nearest wall, presumably to cool off.

   

Sylvio went crazy for wet food. He cleverly trained himself to sit on the washing machine to inform us when he was ready to eat. Or he would wait, patiently but expectantly, in the kitchen, just in view from down the hallway. If he gave up, he would hover quietly nearby until me or Tom walked to the kitchen, then trot ahead to lead the way. 

 

He was well-attuned to any noises or goings-on in the kitchen, like a sixth sense. He didn't complain about the pipe cleaners that Louie dropped in the food bowl. And he was very sneaky when it came to stealing Louie's wet food. When he occasionally darted out the front door, we could always lure him back with a can of wet food. 

  

He was lean when we adopted him, but filled out quickly. Tom said it was the way he carried his fur.

After eating or taking a poo (he was notorious for not covering), he’d become twitchy and flick his tail.  Maybe bat a ball around. When he was feeling especially spirited, he’d splay out his legs and crouch low—a sure sign to Louie that he was ready to play.

 

Sylvio loved slow mornings, resting his head on the edge of the bed as he watched Louie bounce around. 

He was really good at using scratch pads (unlike Louie, who just pretended). He enjoyed cleaning himself and being brushed. He didn't purr often, so it always felt special when he did. 

 

And of course, Sylvio loved his brother. And Louie loved Sylvio. 

 

 

   

It was such a natural transition for them, which is uncommon with cats.

  

  

 

Despite their unique personalities, they quickly became thick as thieves.

 

 

 

They'd often patrol the neighborhood from the windows and front door.

 

 

Most evenings they would zoom around, chasing each other at full speed for at least one lap of the house. Sylvio liked to wind up on his haunches before sprinting after Louie.

 

They'd also wrestle, full-on Lion King style. Louie usually started it, Sylvio always finished it.

  

 

When they tuckered themselves out, they'd rest and recharge. Sylvio liked to stretch and do a tight circle in between sleeping positions. 

 

And he loved to clean Louie's face and ears, which usually ended in a wrestle.

 

After we moved, they found new favorite spots. During the day, we'd put their bed onto our bed, and move it back to the couch at night. When Tom came to bed, Louie would promptly jump out of their bed, but Sylvio was happy to be whisked off to the couch to be tucked in.

 

After we found Sylvio, it was always slightly easier to leave them for trips, knowing they had each other.

 

Tom and I loved to imagine silly scenes of what they would get up to while we were gone.

 

Sylvio had it tough coming after Louie. Yet he still managed to hold a very special piece of my heart. There are so many things that I loved about him:

• When you bent down to pat him, he’d push up on his hind legs, as if leaning into the pat.
• He'd rub affectionately against your legs or anything nearby, just to be cute (or to communicate hunger).
• When he needed to back up quickly, he'd gracefully wheel around on his tall white socks.
• When startled, he'd spring straight up into the air.
• When you went in for a head scratch after he'd just woken up, he'd give a big yawn.
• His face-to-face boops.
• His croaky meow.
• His gentle snores.

 

Sylvio was a good boy, taken far too soon and too suddenly. We miss him more than we can bear.

But I feel him nearby, keeping an eye on us. With Tucker, Max and Mitsy. 

  

We love you forever, Sylvio. And we'll see you again someday.