The house is quieter than you expected.
Gentle, honest company for the weeks after losing your pet, written by someone who has sat in the same silence.
No cost, and no advice you didn’t ask for.
You keep standing at the door at the hour they always wanted to go out. You step over the spot on the floor where they used to lie, because your feet still believe they’re there.
Nobody warns you about that part. They say it gets easier, and it does, eventually. They don’t say that grief for an animal arrives in ordinary moments, in the middle of a Tuesday, while you’re doing nothing at all.
And somewhere in the back of your head there’s a quiet voice asking whether you’re allowed to feel this much.
You are. They were there every day. They knew the sound of your car.Summer
Wherever you are in it, start here.
Three ways in. Take the one that feels bearable today. The others will still be here.
A letter, from me to you
With gentle prompts for the things that are hardest to say. Many people tell me it was the first time they cried properly, and the first time they slept.
FreeSend me the letter 02
The Healing Journey
A 47-page companion for the first weeks and the months after: the guilt, the second-guessing, the strange relief, the days that come around without them.
$17 · guide + 4 companionsSee what’s inside 03
A page for their name
Their photo and their story, somewhere you can visit and send to the people who loved them too. Once it’s made, it stays.
Free · memorial gardenCreate their page
What arrives when you ask for the letter
- You tell me where to send it. That’s the only thing I ask of you.
- It comes with a few quiet prompts: the thank you, the apology, the thing you never said out loud, the promise.
- You write in your own time, in your own words. Nobody reads it but you.
- Now and then, a short note from me about where the harder days tend to fall. Leave whenever you like.
Olive, on her favourite blanket.
I’m Summer. I’ve been where you are.
Her name was Olive. After she died I looked for something that would help, and mostly found clinical advice that read like a pamphlet, or sentimental pictures that didn’t touch what I was actually feeling.
So I wrote what I wished someone had handed me. Not a cure. There isn’t one, and anyone selling you one is lying. Just company, and some words for the things that are hard to say.
If the first days are still raw, start with the letter.
It costs nothing, and it asks nothing of you.