Learning to Live Without Him: The First 90 Days of Pet Loss Grief
How I moved through the early days of life without my closest companion
For me, the first 90 days were a blur.
Just weeks before Jasper passed, I was laid off. Reeling from both losses, I decided to spend time with my parents and friends in Florida. Most days looked the same: long walks on the beach, tears hidden behind sunglasses, and stacks of books I tore through in days. Reading gave me an escape; I consumed Kristin Hannah’s The Women in just two days. I didn’t want to sit alone with my thoughts, so I let stories hold me together.
Walking helped too, retracing the places Jasper and I had explored together at sunrise and sunset. It gave me a sense of routine, even when it took all my energy just to put my shoes on.
I also tried journaling. People told me to practice gratitude. I hated it. The only words I could manage were “Dear Jasper,” written over and over again. Nothing else came to mind. There were too many thoughts, too many things I wanted to tell him if only I could.
The Early Weight of Grief
I remember the first time I laughed. I can’t recall the joke, but I do remember stopping abruptly, overcome with guilt. How could I laugh when my best friend was gone? Looking back, I wish I could hug that version of myself and whisper, “Laughter doesn’t mean you loved him any less.”
It’s something grief researchers talk about often— how guilt is a natural reaction, but largely misplaced. Studies show that grief and joy can coexist, and that positive emotions, when they arise, don’t invalidate the depth of loss (Stroebe & Schut, 2010). Still, it took me months to believe that.
Mornings were especially brutal. Jasper had always been my alarm clock—ready for food, ready for walks, ready for life. Without him, I felt like I had no reason to get out of bed. Jobless and purposeless, I remember spiraling one morning— convinced that everything was my fault. Jasper’s cancer, his death, even the day I chose to let him go.
A Turning Point
That day, I called my therapist. I know how much of a privilege that was— not everyone has a therapist who will pick up the phone, thanks, Stephen! He asked me to start small: drink a glass of water, make my bed, step outside for ten minutes. While we stayed on the phone, I made breakfast. He reminded me of the tools I already had. The grounding techniques and rituals I had forgotten in the fog of grief.
That moment became a turning point. It wasn’t exactly a “success,” but it was survival. And survival required structure. I needed a routine to keep me moving, even if it meant simply putting one foot in front of the other.
Creating New Anchors
I decided to take up tennis. I hadn’t touched a racket since I was twelve, but it gave me three important things: something new to learn, a social environment, and a space where no one knew my story. On the court, I wasn’t “the girl who just lost her dog.” I was just someone trying to hit the ball over the net.
I also sought support. I joined a grief group and worked with a grief coach who validated my messy, contradictory emotions— the anger, the guilt, the loneliness. Validation matters. Disenfranchised grief, like pet loss, often goes unrecognized, making it harder to process. Having someone tell me my feelings weren’t “crazy” changed everything.
I scoured Reddit threads, read academic papers, even reached out to PhD students writing on pet loss grief. The information was out there, but what I wanted—what I needed—was a community. A place to go beyond validation and actually do the work of grief.
Lessons From A Survivor
Looking back, here are some things that helped me survive those first few months:
Creating a care plan. Identify who you can reach out to, your daily non-negotiables, and the things that help you feel grounded. (You can download the one I used here).
Add structure. Even a loose routine—walks, meals, reading— can help anchor you when everything feels uncertain.
Find your safe space. For me, it was reading. For others, it might be cooking, re-watching a comfort show, or staying with family.
Try something new. Learning a hobby or skill gives you something to focus on outside of your grief.
Aim for neutral. You don’t have to be grateful or happy. Some days, just getting out of bed is enough. Research calls this “complicated grief” for a reason—it taxes your brain and body (Shear et al., 2011).
Find support. Grieving in isolation can feel impossible. If your circle doesn’t understand, seek out people who do. The Jasper community exists for this very reason. (You can sign up here, and use code BRITTASGIFT for a free month)
Give yourself grace. Grief is exhausting. Scientists call it “grief brain”—a fog that makes concentration and memory difficult. If you spend the day crying in bed, that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you’re failing.
On the Other Side
I won’t sugarcoat it. The first three months of pet loss grief are raw, brutal, and lonely. But you can make it through. Over time, grief doesn’t vanish, but it shifts. By seeking connection, creating routines, and allowing space for the messiness, you give yourself the chance to carry both the love and the loss—and eventually, to carry them with strength.
If you’ve recently lost your pet, I’m so sorry. You don’t have to go through the early days alone. When you’re ready, I’ve put together a collection of free tools and resources to support you. You can find them here: https://www.jaspergrief.com/resources
Jasper is a community for those navigating one of life’s most disenfranchised forms of grief. Through live Q&As, educational content, and one-on-one support, Jasper helps pet owners process guilt, regret, and love in all its complexity. At its core, Jasper’s message is simple but radical: grief deserves space, not silence. Sign up here. community.jaspergrief.com