I couldn’t sleep. I just stared into the darkness, replaying everything the vet and his assistants had told me. Every now and then, I forgot that my cat was dead. My hand would instinctively reach out to the familiar spot beside me, where Timon always slept. And then the realisation would hit me like a crashing wave—he would never sleep there again.
Somehow, the night turned into day, as if nothing had happened. As if my whole world hadn’t collapsed the evening before. I sat on my bed, unable to make sense of my surroundings. The pieces of the puzzle were all wrong, and in my head, I kept repeating: This is not good. Not good. This is not how it should be.
Friends stayed with me in my despair, sitting quietly beside me while I cried. “What do you need?” they asked gently. But I had no idea.
I felt amputated. Paralysed. And when I don’t know what to do, I Google. So I opened my browser, hoping to find an answer. Just like I had searched for “how to make your boyfriend feel loved” or “how to flirt with a girl” or “how to properly fold a fitted sheet,” I typed in:
“How to grieve when you’re autistic?”
There were plenty of results. Mostly about autistic children—about how their reactions to loss might seem unusual, but that this didn’t mean they were cold or unfeeling (thanks for clearing that up). I found an account from a mother who had buried the family cat before her autistic son could see it (seriously?), and countless pages about how parents grieve when their child is diagnosed with autism (oh, yes, because that is what I need right now).
But no concrete answers to my question.
I closed the tab. On my digital wallpaper were pictures of Timon, life-sized.
Processing grief differently
Autistic people often process information differently, and grief is no exception. When my father died, I understood the concept of death perfectly well. But that experience had been filled with tasks—arranging the funeral, writing condolence cards. Now, I was alone in my house, which no longer felt like home.
Everything reminded me of my cat, because everything in my home had been part of our world. Whenever I bought something new, I’d always show it to him first—”Look, Timon, a new book!”—and he’d give it a careful sniff of approval. Now, there was no one to introduce things to. No tiny pawprints appearing in the most unexpected places. No insistent meowing when I was five minutes late feeding him.
Routine is my safety net. The more predictability I have, the less energy everyday life costs me. (“Martine is as flexible as a lead door,” my father used to say.) But now, all my home routines were either gone or irrevocably changed.
For many autistic people, the sudden loss of a pet isn’t just emotionally devastating—it can be completely destabilising. The predictable patterns that make daily life manageable are shattered. Some autistic people fall into deep depression, self-harm, or experience suicidal thoughts. Dutch autistic author Judith Visser describes this feeling in Zondagskind, when she lost her beloved dog, Senta:
“If you thought about it carefully, it would be bizarre if I didn’t do this. If I just continued my life here while she was there. That wasn’t right. Without her, I wouldn’t be right.”
Fortunately, Judith is still alive—and now shares her life with a whole pack of dogs. But the pain she describes is real, and very common. Many autistic people form deep, almost symbiotic bonds with animals. Research shows that we are more likely to be strongly attached to our pets, or to be involved in animal care—whether at farms, zoos, or riding schools. But animals have shorter lifespans than we do. Which means, inevitably, autistic people will experience this type of loss a lot.
And yet, there are almost no resources about how we process grief, or what can help.
Memories and Meaning
Our life together is over. But I am grateful for all the moments we shared. How Timon used to bury himself in the duvet, how he savoured tinned fish, our morning cuddle rituals, and the thousands of tiny joys that filled our days.
And the ridiculous moments, too. Like that time I put out bowls of salted nuts at a party—only for a guest to pick one up and exclaim, “Wait… why does this feel wet?!”
Timon had licked every single one of them.
Or when I was greasing a cake tin, and he tried to lick it clean.
Or how he photobombed every single picture I ever took in my house. A paw, a tail, or his entire face, pressed up against the lens.
He trusted me completely, even to the point of danger. When I was fixing up my new home, he sat beside me while I hammered, coming so close I nearly crushed his tiny paw. We were a two-person unit. And now, part of us is missing.
And why? Why do loved ones die? What is the point of it? Death gives meaning to life, they say. But how do the living give meaning to death?
In Cartesian terms, I like to think that I donated part of Timon’s body, and part of my mind, to research. That some trace of him, of us, continues to exist in a way that helps others.
And maybe, in some way, that helps me too.
Tips for navigating grief as an autistic person
Losing a beloved person or pet is life-changing. If you are autistic, you may experience grief in ways that others don’t always understand. Here are some things that might help:
- Give yourself permission to grieve in your own way. You might not cry much, or you might cry for weeks. You might feel an overwhelming urge to talk about your loss, or you might struggle to put feelings into words. However you process grief is valid.
- Keep your routines where possible. Even if they feel empty without your loved one, routines provide stability. Structure can help you feel less lost in the chaos of loss.
- Create tangible memories. Make a photo album, write about your memories, create a piece of art or music in their honour. Having a physical way to remember them can bring comfort.
- Find ways to include your lost loved one in your life. You can still talk to them, write letters to them, or keep something that reminds you of them nearby.
- If you need certainty, create a grief plan. Understanding what to expect (emotionally and practically) can make grief feel less overwhelming.
- Reach out to someone you trust. Even if words are hard, knowing you are not alone can make a difference.
- Allow yourself to take breaks from grief. It is okay to find moments of joy, to distract yourself, to laugh at silly memories. This does not mean you love them any less.
- Remember that your feelings make sense, even if the world doesn’t.
