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. Not a partner. Not even a wise fictional character.

It’s their dog. Their cat. A horse they bonded with as a child. Or an animal they lost years ago that still feels present in their nervous system.

And honestly, that makes perfect sense.

Animals often feel safer than humans. They’re less complicated. They don’t ask us to explain ourselves. They don't require us to perform or be anything other than who we are. They show delight when we walk through the door, curl up beside us when we’re sad, and somehow seem to know when we need comfort without us saying a word. (Unless you had a particularly sassy cat—in which case, love was offered on their terms.)

Animals occupy a unique place in our nervous systems. Whether we call them pets, emotional support animals, or simply family, many become reliable sources of co-regulation. Their predictable presence, quiet attunement, and unconditional acceptance can help shift us from states of vigilance toward safety in ways that words sometimes cannot.

For many clients, especially those with social anxiety, developmental trauma, or a long history of relational disappointment, animals provide something deeply healing: the experience of being seen and loved without judgment. A kind of companionship that often feels less fraught than many of our relationships with other people.

They’ve lived alongside us through our best and worst seasons. Breakups. Grief. Loneliness. Illness. Transitions. They’ve brought us joy, laughter, and moments of pure delight—especially when they do something so ridiculous or adorable that we instinctively pull out our phones and take a thousand “Instagram-worthy” photos. (Guilty.)

And yes, they’ve also irritated us. Dug through the trash. Barked at the Amazon driver with unwavering conviction. Scratched the furniture. Tested our patience in ways that feel oddly familiar—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 this 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 that it often eclipsed the greetings from the actual children I birthed. Social, vocal, and deeply woven into our daily rhythms, his presence was constant and grounding. 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 incorrectly. 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 reflects how deeply you loved—and were loved in return. Your grief deserves the same compassion you would offer anyone mourning someone they deeply loved. Love is love, and our nervous systems don't measure attachment by species.

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 every paw print left on our hearts,

Mandy