- Discovering that the shelter where I dedicated my time would be closing felt like losing a dear friend.
- I began volunteering at the shelter to cope with a traumatic incident and found it beneficial in my battle with an eating disorder.
- I’ve come to realize that my personal grieving process doesn’t follow a conventional timeline, and that’s perfectly fine.
Receiving an email last month informing me that the animal shelter, where I dedicated my weekends for the past two years, was being sold, brought me to tears. The shelter building would be officially closing its doors in just a couple of weeks.
It felt like losing a close friend. After experiencing a traumatic event, volunteering at the shelter provided me with solace. Assisting the shelter dogs shifted my focus away from my own problems and directed it towards those in need. Walking dogs as a volunteer became more beneficial for my eating disorder recovery than any treatment or therapy I had undergone. Losing the shelter meant losing the ability to breathe, figuratively speaking.
Aside from my personal attachment, the shelter was a sanctuary for homeless dogs. I couldn’t help but wonder where the dogs, who received not only safety but genuine love at the shelter, would go. In the midst of a shelter overcrowding crisis, a place that had cared for numerous dogs was suddenly gone, and I felt powerless to do anything about it.
It was more than just a shelter; it was a safe haven
Learning about the closure of the shelter reawakened familiar emotions. In fact, they mirrored the feelings I had experienced when I first started volunteering there, which were characterized by grief, powerlessness, and a loss of control.
However, it seemed that few individuals outside the shelter understood my emotions. Not only did I have to cope with the loss, but I also felt the need to explain to others—individuals who had heard me speak about the shelter incessantly for years—why I needed time to grieve.
I used to believe that the dogs were the sole reason the shelter felt safe and special. However, when confronted with the reality of its closure, I recognized that the people involved—the volunteers and staff members—played a significant role in creating a secure environment for me. They helped me regain trust in people and provided a sense of safety to me, as well as the dogs who were also learning to trust once again.
While I often felt out of place in social settings, I felt a sense of belonging at the shelter. It was the first place where I felt I had a purpose—people not only relied on me but also genuinely wanted me to be there.
I’ve discovered that the grieving process is not linear
The stages of grief I went through felt more like being relentlessly swept by waves during high tide rather than straightforward steps with clear endpoints. Although anger was the initial response, it never truly left.
I experienced anger as I repeatedly questioned how such a decision could have been made. Denial emerged in the form of hope that the plans would be reversed. Bargaining began when I wondered if there was something I could do to rectify the situation. Then, depression set in as I realized there were days where it was already 1 pm, and I hadn’t even gotten out of bed.
I traversed through all these emotions before the shelter even closed. In a step that may resemble acceptance, I signed up for a few more shifts to see the dogs once more and hug my fellow volunteers. I even enrolled in volunteer orientation at another shelter, fearful of the void that would inevitably ensue once mine officially closed.
However, as the grief cycle circled back, this time it lingered on bargaining: What could I have done to prevent this from happening? Among all the stages, this felt the most bearable. It implied that something could be done about the loss, that it could be undone, and that I wasn’t entirely powerless.
My journey towards healing takes a unique path
Acceptance has never come easily for me. I struggle to comprehend those who can simply adapt to circumstances, and my frustration often spills over onto those around me.
This isn’t the first time I’ve encountered difficulties with acceptance. In eating disorder recovery, group leaders often discuss the concept of “radical acceptance,” a clinical term that refers to coming to terms with aspects beyond our control. This can include accepting the time lost due to the disorder.
However, these suggestions have always felt like an instruction to “get over it” to me. I resist anything that implies I should “move on” before I’m ready, and my timeline for grief rarely aligns with society’s expectations. Even a few days before the shelter closed, some friends remarked, “Can’t you just volunteer at another shelter?” or even, “Well, you had a great experience there, and now that you have your own dog, you can focus your attention on her instead.”
It felt as though I was perceived as taking too long to overcome the shelter’s closure. I was expected to move forward and cease to care. But how could I simply stop caring?
Remembering cherished memories aids the grieving process
Instead of pressuring myself to move on, I’m allowing myself time to reminisce about the positive experiences I had at the shelter. I recall the volunteer who let me shadow her on my first dog-walking shift, patiently answering my countless questions.
I remember the endearing qualities of specific volunteers. One individual would spend time in the shelter lobby with a special dog each week until they found their forever home. Another volunteer possessed a reassuring presence, making everything feel more secure just by being around. I recall the comfort of knowing the other volunteers and staff members always had my back in case anything went wrong.
Although the shelter has now closed, I cherish every moment spent with my fellow volunteers and eagerly anticipate future experiences. I’ve registered for every feasible volunteer opportunity related to dogs that comes my way. While the recent shelter I visited was not the same, there were still dogs in need of my assistance. And I am allowing myself to feel sadness about the closure of my safe haven. I may have lost my physical sanctuary, but grief still requires a space to exist. And that’s perfectly alright.
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