Coping with the Grief of Pet Loss

I still fill up your bowl by accident.
Still look for you in the corner of the room where you liked to hide.
Still pause before I vacuum — just in case you look too cosy to disturb. It can always wait.

You were just a rabbit, right?

That’s what people think.

But you were the heartbeat in my day.
The soft thump of your feet when you got excited and pinged across the room.
The way you flopped when you felt safe.
The quiet trust of a little creature who asked for nothing (except maybe treats) but gave so much without even realising it.

Now that you're gone, the silence is too big.

Losing Athena

I lost Athena recently. One half of the little duo that’s been with me for seven years. One part of the reason I created this website.

Seven years of routines I didn’t realise I’d miss until they were gone — topping up her herbs, laughing at her dramatic foot flicks, watching her do her “I’m too dignified to beg but please give me treats” nudges.
She was quiet, but full of opinions. Gentle, but no pushover. Sweet, but not soft.

She was there through everything. My ups and downs. My messy, healing, growing seasons.
Just there. Existing beside me with that calm, steady kind of presence only animals seem to know how to give.

And now she’s not.

He passing was completely unexpected and sudden. My world shattered all within 1 day. I always knew bunnies were fragile in their health, but I never thought it would happen to me. How could it happen to me when I did everything right? But, life isn't always in our control.

I was so worried about Apollo that I slept on the floor in his room for a few nights straight after it happened. I'd heard horror stories of bonded partners passing from sadness after the loss of a hus-bun or bun-wife. He wasn't eating properly and kept searching for her. I couldn't cope with losing them both.

It took Apollo almost a month to recover from his grief and loneliness. I ask myself if it would have been longer had I not adopted him a new friend.

Grief Has No Rulebook

Pet loss is a strange kind of heartbreak.

The world doesn't pause for it. There's no funeral leave. No clear rituals. Some people don’t get it. For us bunny owners, most people don't get it.

Some people laugh when you tell them you cried the whole way home after collecting their ashes. Ridiculous, they think. Heartless, I think.

But when you love something small and gentle — something that depended on you, trusted you, made you laugh on the worst days — losing them doesn’t feel small. It feels like something’s been quietly carved out of you.

Especially with rabbits.
People underestimate them.
But those of us who know… we know.
They’re full of personality. Sass. Ritual. Connection.

You don’t just lose a pet — you lose a little companion who shared your space and softened your edges.

I cried a lot every day for at least a week. To be honest, I competely shut down. Couldn't do much but binge watch movies and cry. Since then, I just felt a little numb, but still mostly sad. It's true what they say, it does get easier with time, but the amount of time... who knows. It is different for each of us.

It’s the Little Things That Hurt the Most

It’s the space by the skirting board where they used to sleep.You can still see the section they chewed.
The time of day when you’d usually give them their favourite treat.
The sound your brain still hears even though your ears know better.

It’s going to bed and feeling like the house is too still.

Grief isn't loud. Not always. Sometimes it's a quiet ache in the background of your whole life.

If You're in It Right Now — You're Not Alone

Maybe it wasn’t a rabbit. Maybe it was your dog. Your cat. Your rat. Your bird. Your lizard.
Whatever they were — they were yours. They were family. That’s what matters.

If it still hurts — no matter how long it’s been — that doesn’t make you strange or overly sensitive.
It makes you someone who let yourself love. I think it is an honour to be able to say you loved that deeply.

Someone who bonded with something small and perfect and fragile... And lost them.

That's brave. And hard. And incredibly human.

Little Things That Help (Even Just a Bit)

🕯️ Say their name out loud. Every day, if you want to. Speak to them. Tell them what the day was like. You don’t need permission to keep them close.

🕯️ Create a little space for them. A photo. A paw print. Their favourite toy. A plant in their memory. Rituals give shape to the grief. I have a little plaquard on a shelf in the bunny room that says "If love was enough, you would have lived forever". Next to a little vial of her fur, as well as her ashes. I'd like to get some artwork of her created down the line, too.

🕯️ Write them a letter. Or write one from them to you. Imagine what they’d say. (It probably involves snacks and a reminder that you were the best.)

🕯️ Be around people who get it. Not everyone will. But some do. And it’s such a relief when you find them.

🕯️ Cry. Or don’t. Grief looks different on everyone. There’s no right way.

They Were Loved. Deeply. That’s the Legacy.

It doesn’t matter how small they were, or how quiet. Or how few people knew them. They were yours. They were family. They were real. They mattered.

And the love you gave them? That’s still here. Still tucked into your heart — no matter how long it has been.

So no, Athena wasn’t just a rabbit.
She was a part of me. I’ll keep carrying her, quietly and forever.