What I Didn't Get to Say
On Presence, Pet Loss, and the Conversations We Almost Miss
I get nervous in front of cameras. Always have. It's better than it used to be, but it hasn't gone away entirely — and walking into a recording for The Love, Baxter Podcast — a resource for people navigating pet loss — I knew two things were going to happen. I was going to be nervous. And I was going to talk about Stanley, which meant I might cry.
I did. Maybe you noticed. Maybe you didn't. But now that it's over, I find there's something I didn't get to say. Not just in the podcast. To Stanley.
Animals Are Our Teachers
The one thread I keep seeing in pet loss sessions — the thing animals come back to again and again — is presence. Not closure. Not moving on. Presence. It has been hard to ignore, even in my own waking life.
Animals are our teachers. Not in the way we expect — not through obedience or tricks or even unconditional love. Through presence. They live in it naturally. And if we get quiet enough, they'll show us how.
Here's what I want people to know when they're losing a pet: They are not afraid in the way we are. They understand something about what is coming that we are still learning. They are not just enduring. They have a perspective on what's happening, and they want you to hear it. If you're reading this, you probably already know something about loss. Maybe you're in it right now. Maybe you're watching your pet age and feeling that low hum of dread that doesn't quite have a name yet.
That emotion, when you let it move, is often what breaks the wall down. And on the other side is presence.
What Stanley Showed Me
In the year before Stanley died, I was managing. Tracking his liver numbers. Researching. Watching signs and trying to stay one step ahead of whatever was coming. I thought that was love. I thought that was taking care of him.
He didn't need me ahead of him, or even following him. He needed me next to him, where he was. I was the one somewhere else, circling. So I stopped. I sat down next to him. I stopped needing to fill the silence. That was the first lesson. Presence is the only place where you can actually hear anything.
Once I stopped holding fear, Stanley started showing me things. Not in words, exactly. In impressions, in feelings, in a kind of knowing that arrived quietly when I wasn't trying to force it.
One day I was sitting at my desk and looked up to find him sleeping in his bed nearby. Stanley always slept with his eyes open, watching me. So I got up and lay down next to him, my head next to his on the bolster. We both closed our eyes and I asked: what do you see?
He showed me sand dunes, grasses blowing in the wind. A lazy stream running through. A soft blue sky with one cloud. A bird flew past. This is where we can meet, he said.
It felt like time stopped. Like this was the most important moment for me to understand. And that here, in this place, we would always find each other. As the months went on and he began to show further signs of decline, he started talking to me more. Showing me something larger — about life and death as part of a whole. I didn't have words for it then. I'm not sure I do now.
When I miss him, I go there. And he is there.
Before They Go
You don't have to be a professional animal communicator to hear your animal. With years of training and practice, I still had to learn about transitions the hard way, slowly, with Stanley, in real time. You just have to be willing to get quiet enough and listen.
To find your own version of dunes and a stream, put down your phone. Sit or lay down with them. Close your eyes and let your animal find you there. What do you feel and see? They're already trying to reach you.
But if you want help — if you're in that year, or those months, and you want to know what your animal is actually experiencing — that's what an animal communication or pet psychic session can offer. Not a diagnosis. Not a prediction. Their perspective. What they want you to know before they go.
I didn't lose Stanley — I lost the version of him I could take on walks and hold in my lap. What remained is harder to describe and, honestly, harder to argue with. If you are in the middle of a loss right now, or approaching one, or still carrying one from years ago — there is probably something unsaid on your side too. It doesn't need a podcast, or a microphone, or anyone listening but them. A quiet room is enough.
That's what I didn't get to say.
Thank you, Stanley. For showing me the path and leading me here.
If you're ready to connect, or simply curious about what a session might open up, I'd love to hear from you. Book a session.
Lesley Ames is a psychic medium and animal communicator based in Seattle and available worldwide. She works remotely by phone or Zoom with people navigating grief — before a loss and after — and with the animals who still have something to say. You can find her at lesleyames.com.