Between Every Breath: Reiki, Animals, and the Sacred Work of Letting Go

By PJ Valenciano

There are days I question everything, not in a poetic way, but in the quiet, messy way that happens when I’m on my knees cleaning a cage, or whispering goodbye to a dog whose body is slipping away. I question why I do this… why I still open myself to love animals this deeply when I know, most of the time, I’ll have to let them go. I question if this is love or something entangled in the pain of my past. Am I caring out of devotion, or out of old wounds? Am I here because I’ve been called, or because a younger part of me still needs to be needed? I ask myself: Am I trying to save them, or save the parts of me I couldn’t reach before?

It’s not easy to sit beside a dying puppy and feel their breath slow down beneath your hand. It’s not easy to fight for a neglected cat, watching them fight so hard and still not make it. I’ve done both more times than I can count. Some animals I’ve held only for a day. Some for years. Each one takes something from me, and leaves something deeper behind. And still, even with all that, I show up. That’s the truth of it. I still show up without grand expectations or guarantees. I show up with no attachments. No heroic story. No finish line to cross. Just presence. Just my willingness to show up and, most importantly, to come from a place of LOVE. 

And some days, I question even that. I question if what I call love is trauma wearing a softer name. I wonder if I’m trying to save others because I never learned how to save myself. I ask if this calling is the soul's purpose or survival. Maybe it’s both. Maybe healing often lives in the space between contradiction and truth.

Maybe this is what love is, a holy ache we carry forward anyway.

I’ve spent most of my life with animals. They feel like home in a way nothing else does. They don’t ask for explanations or performances. They meet me where I am. And even when they’re at the edge of life, they still teach me how to live. Anthropology doesn’t always center animals in spiritual or cultural narratives, but in my world, they are the culture. The wisdom-keepers. The quiet breath of Spirit moving through the everyday. They have their own rituals, rhythms, and relational intelligence. They are not just with me,  they are teaching me.

And they’re the reason I stayed long enough to understand Reiki. Reiki found me in the in-between when I didn’t know what to do with the pain I was holding. When I was burning out from trying too hard to fix what could not be fixed. Reiki became a way to stay soft and strong at the same time. A way to stay present when I didn’t know how else to help. It taught me that healing is not always a cure. That sometimes, healing is simply a deep breath. A silent prayer. A hand resting gently on fur. A willingness to sit beside someone and not look away.

Through Reiki, I learned how to trust divine intelligence. How to be discerning without being cold. How to hold space without losing myself in someone else’s story. 

I became, slowly, a kind of pillar, not rigid or unreachable, but steady. Able to witness illness, grief, and transition with both love and groundedness. I wasn’t just caregiving anymore; I was evolving into something else. A quiet presence at the doorway between life and death. A witness. A death doula, in a way. 

There are animals whose transitions changed me. Quincy was one of them. His passing broke me open in ways I couldn’t explain. It wasn’t just grief. His death came with clarity. A deeper knowing that presence does not end with breath. That when you love fully, you are never truly separate. Quincy reminded me that what we give in love continues long after the goodbye.

There have been clients, too, animals I didn’t raise but came to love, and guardians who trusted me in their most tender moments. KITTEN, the stray cat who touched a human so deeply that their bond softened even the hardest days. Aki, the black labrador dog, was surrounded by a circle of care, not just by his caretakers, but a loving energy field that held him with reverence in his final days. 

These animals and their humans showed me that love doesn’t have to be lifelong to be life-changing. I am honored to be part of their journey. I am grateful to witness how grief can become service, how loss can reveal wisdom, how non-attachment and compassion are not opposites but companions on the path. 

These stories remind me that this too shall pass — and this too is sacred soul work.

Recently, I wrote an article about this kind of presence, and it was published by Reiki Rays, a global platform I’ve long respected. Reiki Rays is a community for energy healers and Reiki practitioners around the world,  a place I once turned to for answers, and now, I get to contribute to. My article, When Reiki Flows Between Two Hearts: Supporting Animals and Their Guardians in Illness and Transition, is both a practical guide and a reflection drawn from my lived experience. It offers insights into how we can support animals and their guardians through illness, transitions, and those sacred in-between moments, beyond the Reiki techniques, but with compassion, groundedness, and humility.

It’s a structured piece, but it came from my own raw, often wordless journey. From every goodbye I’ve whispered. From every cage I’ve cleaned while silently channeling energy. From every time I chose to stay, even when it hurt. And now, I offer this to others. What was once instinctive is now intentional. What was once survival is now service. 

I offer Reiki to animals and their guardians, not as a healer with answers, but as someone who knows the terrain of grief, devotion, and grace. As someone who’s walked through loss and found meaning woven into the cracks.

The truth is, the everyday is still hard and also wildly beautiful. I still cry when I lose one. I still laugh when a dog knocks over the water bowl just to get my attention. I still pause at sunrise in the pet’s room, feeling the quiet sacredness of another morning I’ve been trusted to live. 

There’s a saying: in grief, you love deeper. And maybe, when you love this deeply, you also grieve more honestly. Either way, I wouldn’t trade this life. I wouldn’t trade the heartbreak, the soft victories, the sacred mess of it all. Because love is not about holding on, it’s about showing up, again and again, with presence.

Last week, I said goodbye to two of my cats. One was named Reiki. The other, Love. And no, I didn’t name them to be metaphors. But somehow, the universe wrote that poetry into my life anyway. These two beings were part of my every day, curled beside me, witnessing my healing, receiving my care. And finally, he has been adopted off to new journeys, new hearts, new beginnings.

Reiki is now the resident cat in a veterinary clinic. How beautiful is that? From being held in my arms as energy flowed through him… to now holding space for others in their moments of healing and transition. And Love, my eccentric little dumpster kitten, wild and unpredictable in how he gives affection, has now turned two years old. Two whole years of learning, loving, and growing beside me. He loved differently, quietly, often on his own terms, but it was unmistakable. And now, he’s off to a new home. A new space to unfold and be received, just as he is.

This wasn’t death, but it was another kind of letting go. Another kind of transition. A reminder that to release with grace is also a form of love. That letting go isn’t only for those we’ve lost to death, but for those we trust enough to send forward into life. Reiki and Love now continue — just in another form, in another chapter. The energy between us doesn’t end. It flows onward, gently, beautifully, into the unknown.

And in the quiet hours as I cleaned our space, I looked around and saw that I wasn’t carrying this alone. Gerard, who never intended to be part of this journey, found himself pulled into it anyway. And he never turned away. I see him now, every day, washing their beddings, cleaning with care, speaking softly to the dogs and cats, and I see how they trust him too. I see how he also feels the weight of it all; he is very vocal about it, and yet he shows up too. And for that, I am deeply grateful. 

This love, this sacred work, is no longer mine alone. It lives in our shared presence.

And if your heart resonates with any of this — if you’ve loved and lost and still show up — I invite you to walk with me. In time, I’ll be sharing more updates through Pawsome Paws — a living, breathing community grounded in reality. It’s the day-to-day care: feeding, spay and neuter work, advocacy, and partnership with people who walk this path with the same integrity and heart. You see, it’s all about connection. About showing up together. About choosing love in action. It’s still soft, still forming, but it’s real. Just like this LIFE. Just like LOVE. Just like REIKI.