When Grief Meets a Closed Door: Our Family’s Experience with Rescue Adoption

Grief is a strange companion. It doesn’t only show up when someone-or some being-we love dies. It sneaks into the in-between spaces too: the hopes we attach to healing, the symbols that feel like signs, and the moments when our hearts are ready to open again.

Recently, my family experienced this in a deeply personal way. We lost our soul dog, Mikayla, a few weeks ago. She was family. Her absence has left an ache that words don’t quite capture.

My daughter Maggie, who volunteers at a local dog rescue, formed a bond with a pup named Olympus. Their quirks, their presence, even their expressions reminded us so much of Mikayla. Despite how raw our grief still was, my kids and I agreed to meet Olympus. And we fell in love.

I applied to adopt Olympus with my whole heart. I wrote about our family: about Maggie’s devotion to animal welfare, about Brady’s dream of one day running a farm dog sanctuary, about my years as a certified trainer, and about our home where two other dogs already run on acres of land with a family of six that ensures they’re never alone. I answered every question, every email, provided every detail they asked for.

An entire week of back and forth communication.

And then came the rejection.

The reason? One of our dogs had a lapse in a couple of yearly wellness visits. In between being rehomed to us from a different household, a pandemic and a sick elderly dog, we missed one appointment here and there. While our pets are healthy, happy, and thriving, the absence of those checkups was enough to disqualify us.

Here’s the thing: I understand rescues want to uphold high standards. But sometimes, those rigid guidelines unintentionally keep dogs in cages longer. They prevent loving families….ones who hike, travel, and spend their days with their dogs…from being considered “good enough” on paper.

What many don’t realize is that for grieving families, moments like this are a second loss. Olympus wasn’t just a dog. She was hope. She was a bridge between heartbreak and healing. Being told “no” didn’t just deny us an adoption - it reopened the wound of losing Mikayla.

I share this not to blame, but to shed light. To show the hidden grief in these moments. To encourage shelters and rescues to balance policies with humanity, to remember that love, commitment, and stability sometimes can’t be measured in vet paperwork.

And to anyone who has felt rejected, dismissed, or overlooked in their grief-you’re not alone. Sometimes healing doesn’t look like a straight line. Sometimes it looks like hope, heartbreak, and trying again.

Because love, even when it’s turned away, is never wasted.