The Grief No One Gives You Time For
Losing My Family in a World That Doesn't Pause
It was a quiet morning flight back from Hong Kong. Business trip done, I settled into my seat, popped on headphones, and chose The Wild Robot, thinking an animated film would be the perfect gentle wind-down.
Big mistake.
Halfway through, the story hit that raw nerve of love, loss, and saying goodbye to someone who loved you unconditionally. Tears started quietly, then came in waves. I cried buckets, embarrassingly, messily, right there at 30,000 feet. Strangers pretended not to notice. I didn't care. For the first time in months, the grief I'd been holding back and bottled up, simply poured out. All of it. Capsicum. Sesame. Farfalle (most recent for whom I absolutely have no time and maybe I didn’t want to think about). Sushi. Meow. Mogwai. HongBei. Tidbit. DimSum. Daisy. Bella. And so many more (some family pets). Every compounded loss rushed back.
Because here's the truth most people don't speak out loud: losing a pet can shatter you just as deeply as losing a human family member. And yet society generally hands you zero time, zero space, and often zero understanding to grieve it.
My current crew is Kuro, my sassy Shiba Inu who greets me like I've been gone for years every time I walk through the door (seriously, 5 minutes?), and Mochi and Penne, my two cheeky cockatiels who whistle tunes and demand treats. They're my daily joy. But the last couple of years have been a string of goodbyes that still ache.
Capsicum the Long-Tailed Parakeet
Capsicum was my long-tailed parakeet rescue from years ago—a fiercely loyal one-human bird who tolerated everyone else but lit up for me. I was recovering from surgery, stuck at home with minimal movement for two weeks. When I finally could travel to my mom's place where she was staying, I found her unwell, some random virus, the vet wasn't sure. I rushed her straight to the clinic. She waited. She literally waited until I got there, looked at me one last time, and then let go. That moment haunts me in the gentlest, most heartbreaking way.
Sesame the Cockatiel
Sesame was the cockatiel mother to Mochi and Penne, wife to Farfalle in our little bird family. Mom accidentally left the cage ajar one day while she wasn't feeling well; Sesame got spooked by the vacuum and flew out the window. We searched for a month, posters everywhere. One block in the neighborhood had posters ripped down within 24 hours. I choose to believe someone kind took her in and gave her a new home. The not-knowing is its own kind of grief.
Farfalle the Cockatiel
Farfalle, our rescued car-park wanderer cockatiel, found love after Capsicum passed (we brought Sesame home for him). He didn't give up easily, unrequited at first, but they built something real. Four babies later, we kept two and rehomed the others. He lived a fuller, rescued life than anyone could have predicted. But while I was away in Japan for just over a week, he passed the morning I landed back home. I walked in exhausted from travel, and he was gone. Another quiet, compounding blow. His lifeless body stripping me of any last bit of energy I had.
Each loss layered on the last. Grief doesn't reset; it accumulates. And every time, I had to keep going. Work meetings, deadlines, life, because there's no "compassionate leave" for this. No policy says, "Take the day; your heart just broke." Compassionate leave is rigid, often limited to immediate human family. For singles like me, whose deepest daily bonds are with my pets, there's nothing. Policies don't stretch that far.
What makes it even heavier is how deeply these stories affect me beyond my own losses. Any sad or emotionally triggering tale about animals like abuse, abandonment, or passing, cuts straight through me. I feel an overwhelming sadness and empathy, not just for the animals suffering, but for the humans left shattered behind them. A news story about a neglected dog, a video of an abandoned cat, or even a fictional scene in a movie like The Wild Robot where a mother figure says goodbye, it all hits the same vulnerable spot. My chest tightens, tears come unbidden, and I carry that ache for hours, sometimes days. It's like my heart has been trained by every rescue, every bond, every goodbye to feel the pain of any animal (or their person) as if it were my own. That empathy is a gift, but it also means the world’s casual cruelty toward animals feels personal, and the silence around pet grief feels even lonelier.
Workplaces might nod sympathetically if you lose a parent or spouse (though even then, it's often just a few days). But a pet? "Sorry to hear that, hope you're okay tomorrow." If you're private (and your life is not a TikTok Live), no one even knows. You swallow the lump in your throat during meetings, answer emails with red eyes, and pretend the silence at home isn't deafening.
In Singapore, a few forward-thinking companies now offer pet care leave (some give days for adoption or bereavement), but it's still rare and not the norm. Most of us get none (childcare leave would be applicable in this case). We burn vacation days, call in "sick," or mostly just power through. And for private people? It's invisible pain.
I've learned the hard way: you have to carve out your own space to grieve properly. A good, ugly cry helps, even if it's on a plane watching a kids' movie. Rituals matter: lighting a candle, looking at old photos, whispering their names. Finding one person who gets it (no "just get another one" platitudes) makes a difference. Online communities for pet loss can be surprisingly kind.
Pets aren't "just animals." They're family, with bonds sometimes deeper and purer than many human ones. They greet you without judgment, love you through your worst days, and ask for so little in return.
More needs to change. Compassion should extend further. Policies could evolve. Workplaces could say, "Take the time you need, your loss matters here." Until then, we owe it to ourselves and to the memory of those we've loved to feel it fully, even if the world doesn't give us permission.
To Capsicum, Sesame, Farfalle and the rest: You were seen. You were loved. And your absence still echoes.
If you've lost a pet and felt this silent weight or if animal stories hit you just as hard - you're not alone. Share in the comments, your story might help someone else feel less invisible.
Kuro the Shiba Inu
What do you think, should pet bereavement leave become standard in more Singapore companies? Or have you found your own ways to honor and heal? I'd love to hear.
Life is short. Hug your dear ones tightly, even if they are feathered or furred family, birds, cats, dogs, and every other pet, because they most definitely count.
