Holding it together when you’re falling apart

I wasn’t sure whether to write this.

It’s a bit of a strange one today, and there are so many emotions. My very elderly dog – a 15 year old Serbian Hound, the most beautiful soul – is at the end of his life. Right now, as I write this, he’s still with me. But we have the vet visit booked. We have the cremation booked. And by the time you read this, he’ll be gone. It’s a lot to process for all of us.

Humphrey came to us as a rescue many years ago, long before the children were around. He’s always been eccentric – an unusual, special boy. Something of a guardian angel. And when the children came along, we realised just how special he actually was.

You see, my PDA child has an incredibly close bond with him. We all do, but for this child in particular, we’re losing so much more than just a family pet.

Humphrey has a special gift. He picks up on anxiety, and rather than shying away, he takes himself to that person – particularly to our child – and brings a steady calm. Many years ago, in the height of our confusion and chaos and dysregulation, his beautiful soul led the way and showed us. He helped us to understand. He would just go and stand quietly next to our child, wait for the storm to pass, and just be there.

And now we’re saying goodbye.

We only lost our Labrador 11 weeks ago, so this feels even harder. The house will be bereft without any dogs at all. That’s something my youngest keeps saying – how strange it will be. No dog to greet them in the morning. No dog when they get home from school. That absence feels huge already.

When we found out last week, from blood results, that our old boy had a chronic condition and his body was shutting down, we knew what was coming. We’ve seen the deterioration over the past week, and we knew the kindest thing was to let him go, as much as we desperately wanted to cling on. So we had to explain it to the children.

I made the arrangements and explained exactly what would happen, giving them the option to either be there or not. Their choice. They chose to be with him. As hard as that is, I do think that as they get older, they’ll be glad they had the chance to thank him and say goodbye.

And now, as a family, we’re navigating our way through the grief.

We’re trying to do this in a way that feels right for us. We’ll choose a spot in the garden to bury Humphrey’s ashes. We’ll all have the opportunity to write, draw, or create something to say our final thank you. Something to speak out or bury with him. A goodbye that feels real.

Because for our children, this isn’t just sadness in the way people often expect. Grief doesn’t always come out as tears. It can look like anxiety, like needing more control, like things feeling unsettled or off without being able to explain why. Sometimes it doesn’t hit straight away at all. And when you understand it through that lens, it makes more sense.

I’m trying to keep as much routine as possible to create a sense of familiarity and safety. But I won’t pretend it’s easy. Because alongside supporting them, I’m in it too.

I’m doing my best to hold everything together for everyone else, whilst feeling like I’m crumbling inside myself.

And this is the bit I think often goes unsaid. The parent holding the grief of the whole family, whilst quietly carrying their own.

So right now, I’m leaning on everything I talk about. Lowering expectations. Letting things drop. Not trying to “get it right”. Giving myself permission to rest, even when things aren’t done. Taking small moments where I can – a breath, a pause, stepping outside for a minute when it all feels too much.

Not fighting the feelings. Just allowing my body to move through them. Reminding myself that this is grief. This is love. And it’s meant to feel like something. And trusting that it will pass, in its own time.

As much as it hurts, I feel incredibly honoured that we got to share our lives with such a pure, gentle soul for all these years.

If you’re in a season of loss, of holding too much, of trying to keep going when everything feels heavy underneath – I see you. Truly.