The Ones Who Sit Beside Us: Animals as Family

In EMDR and resourcing work, I often invite clients to identify a nurturing figure—someone (or something) that evokes safety, warmth, protection, and unconditional care. And time and time again, something beautiful happens.

It’s not a parent. It’s not a partner. It’s not even a wise fictional character.

It’s their dog. Or their cat. Or the horse they bonded with as a child. Or the animal they lost years ago but still feels right there in their nervous system.

And honestly? That makes perfect sense.

Animals often feel safer than humans. They’re less complicated. They don’t require us to explain ourselves. They don’t ask us to perform or get it “right.” They show delight when we walk through the door, curl up next to us when we’re sad, and somehow know when we need comfort without us saying a word. (Unless you had a particularly sassy cat — in which case, love was shown on their terms.)

Animals play a special role in our lives. Some people call them emotional support animals, furry family members, or their best friends. Whatever the label, the bond is real. Deep. Regulating. Attuned.

For many clients — especially those with social anxiety, developmental trauma, or a long history of relational disappointment — animals provide something profoundly healing: a sense of being seen and loved without judgment. A companionship that feels less fraught than our two-legged human counterparts.

They’ve lived alongside us through our best and worst seasons. They’ve been there during breakups, grief, loneliness, illness, and transitions. They’ve brought us joy, laughter, and moments of pure delight — especially when they do something so ridiculously adorable or funny that we instinctively pull out our phones and take a trillion instagram-able photos. (Guilty.) And yes, they’ve also irritated us. Dug through the trash. Barked relentlessly at the Amazon driver. Scratched the furniture. Tested our patience in ways that feel oddly familiar… just like any other family member.

Which is why the grief hits so hard when they’re gone. The loss of an animal can carry the same weight as losing a close friend or family member — and sometimes even more. Yet that grief is often minimized or misunderstood by the world. I want to make space for it here.

Our family has been carrying a quiet sadness lately. We recently lost our beloved cat, whom we adopted as a kitten ten years ago—an animal who somehow grew into a full personality with opinions, routines, and a presence that shaped our home. He greeted me at the door every day when I came home from work, meowing with such enthusiasm it often eclipsed the greetings from the actual children I birthed. Social, vocal, and deeply woven into our family life, his presence was constant and comforting. Now, without him, the house feels unmistakably different.

Both in the therapy room-and in our own lives- we hold the full wheel of human emotion — including the love, attachment, frustration, delight, and heartbreak that comes from our relationships with animals. These beings mattered. They shaped our nervous systems. They offered co-regulation. They helped us survive.

So if your nurturing figure has fur, whiskers, hooves, or paws — you’re not doing EMDR “wrong.” You’re doing it honestly.

And if you’ve lost a beloved animal, your grief is valid. Your sadness is real. The ache you feel is a reflection of how deeply you loved — and were loved in return.

Sometimes healing doesn’t come from complicated conversations or perfectly attuned humans. Sometimes it comes from remembering the steady presence of a four-legged friend who simply sat beside us and said, “You’re okay. I’m here.”

With deep respect for Paws and Purrs,

Mandy