💔 “I Feel…”

Part of me didn’t want to write my blog this week. But as someone who advocates for normalising and talking openly about death, dying and grief — and for those who know me personally, authenticity has always been hugely important — I felt it was necessary to share my current thoughts and feelings.

This week, my dog Henry, aged fifteen, died.

I’m not going to tell you all about him — my son Mike wrote a poem about him for a school publishing project, which I’ll post at the end. It tells Henry’s story perfectly.

Instead, I want to focus on the question we all get asked when someone close to us dies:

“How are you? How are you feeling?”

And what do we usually respond? “I’m fine.” or “I’m okay.”

So, how am I feeling?

I feel broken, but yet somehow able to carry on.

I feel desperate for more time, but appreciative that his time was up.

I feel lucky to have had him for so long, but also unfortunate not to have him now.

I feel the pressure of parenting grieving children, despite knowing the importance of honest conversations.

I feel uncomfortable in the house knowing he's not there, yet reluctant to go out and return to his absence.

I feel the need for time and space to grieve in private, but also not wanting to be alone.

I feel compelled to move his things, but also keen to keep them where they are.

I feel pain in my stomach, my head, my throat and my heart.

I feel lonely, but also surrounded by people who care.

I feel I'm making others uncomfortable because they know me as someone who “knows how to cope” with grief.

I feel unable to access the rationality I go to as the outsider, now that I am the insider.

I feel tearful, despite this not being my usual way.

I feel like screaming, yet being quiet feels more natural.

I feel angry, despite having nothing to be angry about.

I feel confident that he would never leave my side, yet somehow he did.

I feel out of control, but somehow still in control.

I feel I need to ask “where’s the dog?” even though I know where he is.

I feel tired, yet unable to sleep.

I feel hungry, but not interested in eating.

I feel vulnerable like some essential layer of me has been removed.

I feel naive like I believed love alone could somehow cushion the landing.

I feel wary of people who may not understand the grief of losing a dog, while fully recognising myself that it is no different to losing a human.

I feel like a child who has lost their security blanket.

I feel like a dog owner, but with no dog.

I feel like I’ve lost my shadow.

I feel suddenly without my best friend.

I feel conflicted.

I feel bereft.

I feel like shit.

Grief doesn’t care about your expertise or experience — it comes for you all the same.

And this week, it came for me.

Henry wasn’t “just a dog.” He was a chapter of my life — loyal, constant, present. Losing him has cracked something open that only time and tenderness can begin to heal. But if there’s any small comfort, it’s knowing that love that deep leaves a mark that grief can never fully erase.

He was my sanctuary.

And now I am learning how to build one inside myself.

HENRY (Hendog) 2010-2025