Science- When I learned the shelter where I volunteered was closing, it felt like losing a friend.
- I volunteered after a traumatic incident; my time there also helped me through my eating disorder.
Last month, I received an email that made me cry. It was from the animal shelter where I'd volunteered every weekend for the past two years, and it said the shelter had been sold. The building would officially close in just a couple of weeks.
It might as well have said that my best friend had died. I started volunteering there after a deeply traumatic experience. Helping the shelter dogs took my focus off my problems and redirected it to those in need, and walking dogs as a volunteer was more helpful in my eating-disorder recovery than any treatment or therapy had ever been. The idea of suddenly losing the shelter felt like losing the ability to breathe.
Beyond my feelings about it, the shelter provided a haven for dogs without homes. Without it, I wondered where the dogs it had cared for would be placed. Amid a crowded-shelter crisis, a place that had been providing not only safety but also genuine love for dozens of dogs was gone — and I couldn't do anything about it.
It was more than a shelter; it was a safe space
Hearing the news of the shelter closing stirred up familiar feelings. In fact, they mirrored those I felt after the situation that had led me to volunteering in the first place: one filled with feelings of grief, powerlessness, and loss of control.
But few people in my life outside the shelter seemed to understand. I found myself not only navigating the loss but also feeling the need to explain to others — who had heard me talking about the shelter any chance I got for years — why I needed time to grieve.
I had always thought what made the shelter feel safe, and so special, was the dogs. But once faced with the reality of the shelter disappearing, I knew that the people there — the other volunteers and staff members — had also been part of what made that building such a safe space for me. They helped me learn that it might be OK to trust people again. And having the dogs there made it feel safe to do so — they were learning to trust again, too.
While I had often felt out of place in social groups, I felt like I belonged at the shelter. It was the first place where I knew I had a role — people not only needed me but also actually wanted me there.
I've learned that grief is not a straightforward path
The stages of grief that I went through felt more like drowning in wave after wave during high tide than simple steps in a process with neat, obvious end times. And though anger came first, it never left.
I experienced anger, as I questioned over and over how they could possibly have made this decision. Denial came in the form of thinking they might reverse their plans. I started bargaining when I wondered if there was something I could do to fix it. Then, depression came, when I realized there were weekends it was 1 pm before I'd even gotten out of bed.
And I went through all this before the shelter even closed. In a step that might look like acceptance, I signed up for my last few shifts so I could see the dogs again and hug my fellow volunteers. I even signed up for volunteer orientation at another shelter, terrified of the void that was sure to settle in once mine had officially closed.
But as the grief cycle spun back around, this time, it got stuck on bargaining: What could I have done to stop this from happening? Of all the stages, this felt the most tolerable. It implied that something could be done about the loss, that it could be reversed, that I wasn't totally powerless.
My path to healing looks different
I've never been good at acceptance. I don't understand those who can take things in stride, and my frustration often spills out onto others around me.
This isn't the first time I've had trouble accepting difficult things. In eating-disorder recovery, group leaders like to talk about "radical acceptance," a clinical term that means coming to terms with something we can't control. In recovery, it can include things like accepting the years lost to an eating disorder.
But to me, this has always felt like being told to simply get over it. I bristle at anything that suggests I "move on" before I'm ready to, and my timeline for grief rarely aligned with what others deemed acceptable. Even days before the shelter closed, a few friends said things like, "Can't you just volunteer at another shelter?" or even, "Well, you had a good time there, and now that you have your own dog, you can just give that extra attention to her instead."
It felt like the implication was that I was taking too long to get past the idea of the shelter closing. I was supposed to move forward, not care anymore. But how could I not care?
Remembering the good memories helps with grieving
So instead of pressuring myself to get over it, I'm taking my time and remembering the good experiences I had there. I'm remembering how on my first dog-walker-shadowing shift, one of the volunteers let me follow her around and ask a million questions.
I'm remembering things I love about specific volunteers. One volunteer would select a special dog each week and stay with them in the lobby of the shelter until they got adopted; another volunteer always knew what to do, and just having him around made everything feel safer. I'm remembering the feeling of knowing that the other volunteers and staff members would always have my back if anything went wrong.
While the shelter is closed now, I cherish every second with my fellow volunteers and look forward to the next experience. I've signed up for every possible volunteer opportunity related to dogs that I can, and while the shelter I recently visited wasn't the same, there were still dogs there who needed my help. And I'm still letting myself feel sad about this building shutting its doors. I may have lost my safe space, but the grief still needs a place to exist. And that's OK.