The Guilt of Rehoming a Pet: How I Learned to Forgive Myself and Try Again

The Kind of Guilt That Stays Quiet

It’s not loud or dramatic. It just kind of lingers. Sometimes it hits you when you see an old photo or hear a meow that sounds a little too familiar. Sometimes it just sits there quietly in the back of your mind, reminding you of what could’ve been.

That’s the kind of guilt that comes with rehoming a pet.

No one really talks about how heavy it feels. You try to be responsible, you make sure they go to a good home, you tell yourself it’s for their happiness. But deep down, it still hurts. You start wondering: Did I give up too soon? Would things have been different if I’d known more?

Even when you know the decision was right for them, logic doesn’t erase love. And it definitely doesn’t stop you from missing them.

For a long time, I carried that guilt everywhere. I felt like I’d failed someone who trusted me completely. It took me a while to realize that guilt doesn’t always mean you did something wrong. Sometimes, it just means you loved so deeply that letting go broke your heart.

That’s where healing started for me. When I finally understood that it’s okay to forgive myself and believe I still deserved another chance to love again.

When I Realized Love Wasn’t Enough

When I first adopted Gigi, I really thought love would be enough. I loved her so much and in my mind, that should’ve been all that mattered.

It was during the pandemic. I was pregnant and living in a small rented room. Life felt lonely and uncertain, and when I saw a Facebook post about this ginger cat looking for a new home, I just knew I wanted her with us. She was this tiny ball of comfort in such a heavy time.

She made me smile every day. She’d curl up next to my belly like she somehow knew there was a baby inside. I talked to her a lot back then, maybe more than I talked to people. She felt like home.

But as months passed, reality hit. She started going into heat and cried loudly, especially at night. We didn’t know much about spaying back then. I thought it was something you only did when you had more money or space. We were just renting, and pets weren’t technically allowed.

Eventually, our landlord started getting complaints from other tenants. It reached a point where we were told we couldn’t keep her anymore. Even before she left, I already felt the guilt creeping in. I remember holding her while crying, trying to explain what was happening even though she couldn’t understand.

When her new family came to get her, I completely broke down. I cried so hard. I was pregnant, emotional, and it felt like my heart was being ripped out. I didn’t want to let her go, but I also knew we had no choice.

For a while, I stayed in touch with her new family. I even had cat litter delivered to their home so I could still help out in some way. They would send me photos and videos sometimes, and I’d watch them over and over again. Eventually, the updates stopped.

When I reached out again about a year later, I found out she wasn’t an indoor cat anymore. They let her outside, especially when she was in heat. That news crushed me. I wanted her to live a safe, happy life indoors but I couldn’t control that anymore. I could only hope she was still okay.

It took me a long time to accept that we did what we had to do. We didn’t have our own home, pets weren’t allowed, and I was about to become a mom. We didn’t know better at the time, but we tried our best with what we had.

I eventually realized that love isn’t just about keeping someone with you. Sometimes it’s about letting them go even when every part of you wants to hold on.

Living With Guilt (and What It Really Means)

The guilt didn’t end the day Gigi left.

If anything, that’s when it really started.

At first, I’d still check my phone, hoping for updates. I’d replay the moment she was picked up over and over in my head, wondering if she understood, or if she felt abandoned. Some days I’d scroll through her photos and feel that mix of love and sadness all over again.

And even though I tried to remind myself we did what we had to do, it didn’t stop the “what ifs” from coming. “What if I’d found another place? What if I’d known more about spaying? What if I’d waited until things got better?”

That’s the hard thing about guilt. It sneaks into everything. It makes you question your love, even when that love was the reason you made the choice in the first place.

For a while, I avoided anything cat-related. Seeing other people post about their pets made me feel like I didn’t deserve another chance. I thought, “Real cat parents don’t give up.” But that kind of thinking just kept me stuck in shame.

Eventually, I realized that guilt and love can exist at the same time. You can grieve a decision and still know it was right. You can miss them and still hope they’re happy somewhere else.

When I finally let myself believe that, I started to see things differently. I wasn’t a bad person, just someone who made a hard choice during a hard time. Someone who did her best with what she knew.

It took a long time to say that without tearing up, but that’s what guilt taught me: it’s not something to erase, it’s something to understand.

And once I understood it, it slowly stopped controlling me.

What Helped Me Heal

Healing didn’t happen overnight. For a long time, I just carried the guilt quietly and tried not to think about it too much. But little by little, certain things helped me see the situation differently.

1. Realizing we did what we could at that time.
Back then, we didn’t have our own home. Pets weren’t allowed, and we honestly didn’t know much about spaying. Looking back, I can see how limited our options really were. We loved Gigi, but we also had to be realistic. We didn’t give her up because we didn’t care. We gave her up because we cared enough to want her to have a stable, comfortable life.

2. Understanding that love looks different in hard situations.
Before Gigi, I thought being a good pet parent meant keeping your cat forever no matter what. But sometimes, love means letting go. It means putting their needs first, even when it hurts you. I still wish things were different, but knowing that she had a chance to live in a place that accepted her made it a bit easier to breathe.

3. Learning more about cats and responsible care.
When I started reading more about spaying, cat behavior, and enrichment, I realized how much I didn’t know back then. Instead of beating myself up for it, I started using that guilt as a reason to do better next time. Knowledge gave me confidence and slowly, forgiveness followed.

4. Time, compassion, and new beginnings.
The pain softened with time, but what really helped was allowing myself to feel everything. Sadness, regret, even anger at myself without rushing to “get over it.” Eventually, that space made room for something new: hope.

I began to believe that maybe, someday, I could be a cat mom again. This time, more prepared, more informed, and more patient with myself.

Choosing to Try Again

It took me almost three years before I could even think about adopting again.

For a long time, I convinced myself I didn’t deserve it. Every time I’d see an adoption post, I’d feel that mix of longing and fear. I wanted to open my heart again, but part of me was scared I’d fail another cat.

But healing has this quiet way of sneaking up on you. One day, I realized I wasn’t just missing having a pet. I was missing the bond, the companionship, and the small, comforting chaos that comes with sharing your space with a cat.

This time, I wanted to do things right. I researched. I learned about spaying, enrichment, and cat behavior. I wanted to make sure that if I adopted again, I could give them the safe, stable home Gigi never got to fully have with us.

When I finally adopted again — two bonded cats — I felt every emotion at once. Hopeful, nervous, excited, hesitant. It felt like a second chance, but also like a promise to my past self: We’ve learned. We’re ready now.

And in a way, Gigi was part of that. She was the reason I became more informed, more patient, and more intentional. I think a part of her love stayed with me, guiding me toward this new chapter.

Now, when I look around and see my three cats lounging in their favorite spots, I can’t help but think maybe this is how healing looks. Not perfect, not without guilt, but peaceful.

Because sometimes, trying again isn’t about replacing what was lost. It’s about honoring it by doing better the next time.

What I’d Tell Anyone Feeling the Same Guilt

If you’ve ever had to rehome a pet and you’re still carrying that guilt,  I get it. I really do.

You probably replay everything in your head, wondering what you could’ve done differently. You might scroll through old pictures and feel that mix of love, sadness, and “what if.” It’s okay. That doesn’t make you a bad person, it just means you loved deeply.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

You didn’t stop loving your pet the day you let them go. You loved them enough to make a hard decision when circumstances left you with no easy options. That’s not abandonment, that’s love in one of its hardest forms.

You did what you could with what you knew and what you had at the time. And that’s all any of us can really do.

Forgiving yourself doesn’t mean forgetting. It just means you’ve finally accepted that love sometimes looks like sacrifice, and that doesn’t make it less real. It means you’re human. It means you care.

And if someday you decide to open your heart again, don’t let guilt convince you that you don’t deserve it. You do. Because the fact that you still care this much proves you’re exactly the kind of person who deserves another chance.

Loving With Empathy (and Letting That Be Enough)

Looking back, I used to think being a good pet parent meant never making mistakes. That love was supposed to be perfect, constant, and easy.

Now I know better.

Love, especially the kind we share with our pets, isn’t about perfection. It’s about doing our best in the moment, learning from the hard parts, and choosing to care again even after we’ve been hurt.

The guilt I felt for rehoming Gigi will always be a part of my story, but it’s no longer the loudest part. What stays with me more is what she taught me: patience, compassion, and how important it is to understand before judging, both myself and others.

Forgiving myself didn’t happen all at once. It happened slowly, in moments when I saw my new cats sleeping peacefully, when I realized how much I’d grown, and when I stopped measuring my worth as a pet parent by the mistakes I made years ago.

If you’re still carrying that same guilt, I hope you remember this: empathy goes both ways. It’s not just something we give to animals, it’s something we owe ourselves too.

Loving with empathy means accepting that sometimes love hurts, sometimes it looks imperfect, and sometimes it asks you to start over. And that’s okay.

Share this with someone who’s still learning to forgive themselves. Maybe they need to hear that love, even when it’s messy, still counts. 💛