The Call to Stay a Little Longer

By PJ Valenciano

This morning, a tender ache stirred quietly within me, a pull so soft, yet impossible to ignore. I was in my usual spot, the one where I feel most productive, ready to tackle the day. But something in the air was different. There was a hum, a whisper, a memory that drifted toward me like incense in the breeze. My heart turned toward the pet’s room.

It wasn’t about chores or to-do lists. It wasn’t about food bowls or cage cleaning or even play. I had done all of that, as I always do. But I realized I hadn’t stayed. Not really. I hadn’t chosen to be there without a purpose. I hadn’t let myself sink into the quiet, soul-soothing space that that room can be.

Each time I tried to work there, I’d feel overwhelmed. A cat would paw at my hand. A dog would softly whimper, hoping for attention. Others would watch me silently from the corners of the room, not asking, just waiting. I used to think: How can I focus when they all need something from me? But today, something softened. A deeper truth came into view.

Maybe they don’t need anything from me. Maybe they just want me. Maybe they’re longing for the same thing I’ve been aching for, quietly and unconsciously—time together, without tasks, without goals. Just presence.

I’ve always shown up for them. I’ve never stopped feeding, loving, and cleaning. But I miss the slower moments. I miss the shared silence, the casual joy of lying on the floor beside them, the feeling of a head resting on my lap while I sip tea or watch the sky change. I miss the way time used to stretch out between us—soft, sacred, and unhurried.

And if I’m honest, I can feel that they miss me too. Not in an anxious way. Not in desperation. But in that same subtle ache—the way a friend misses old rituals, the way the body misses a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. I see it in the way they sit and wait. In the way they look at me with soft eyes, as if asking, Do you remember too?

And yes, yes, I do.

Soon, some of them will be adopted. They’ll find new homes, filled with new stories, new comforts. And while I celebrate that, there’s a quiet sorrow in me. Because they’ve been my home, too, they've been my constants in seasons of uncertainty. My companions through grief and joy. They've witnessed my deepest changes and held space for me in ways I’m only beginning to understand.

Especially after losing Quincy. And others before him. The cycle of parting has been relentless lately. Each goodbye has hollowed out a small part of me, and filled it with gratitude and reverence all at once. It’s taught me that nothing is promised. That the “tomorrow” I keep postponing our time to might never come.

So, I find myself here, heart cracked open, standing on the threshold of something I nearly forgot. I want to return. Not after I’ve finished my list. Not after I’ve earned it. But now. Because it matters. Because I matter. Because we do.

This isn’t a story of resolution. It’s a confession of longing. It’s a soul recognizing that presence is the real offering. That a few minutes of intentional stillness can shift everything. It’s the whisper I heard this morning, barely audible: Maybe it’s time to stay a little longer.

Perhaps you’ve felt this too. Perhaps you’ve been there in all the responsible ways—feeding, walking, cleaning, loving.

But have you been available? For joy? For rest? For shared silence?

What would it look like to carve out time—not to train, fix, or manage—but to connect?

To be on the floor. Or on the couch. Or simply in the same space, doing absolutely nothing except breathing the same air, exchanging energy in quiet communion.

Recently, I listened to a podcast where Mel Robbins shared an encounter that struck a familiar chord. She described sitting eye-to-eye with an injured owl—this wild, majestic being—locked in a silent exchange that didn’t need words. That owl became her teacher, showing her how to look up again, how to trust in wonder, how to feel life instead of rushing through it. It reminded her, and reminded me, that presence is a portal to the sacred.

And I realized: that’s what the animals in my life offer me, every single day. A chance to stop. A chance to feel. To wonder. To connect. A portal to presence, to softness, to unfiltered being. Whether it's a gentle paw tap or a still, steady gaze—these creatures hold the keys to the magic I too often forget.

The bond we share with our animals isn’t just companionship—it’s a doorway into soulful connection. A reminder that time isn’t measured in checkboxes but in shared breath, shared space, shared stillness. And when we pause long enough to match their pace, something beautiful awakens in us. Something ancient. Something holy.

It has never just been about being a pet parent, a rescuer, or a caregiver for me. These are roles people understand, so I use them when needed, but they have never captured the truth of what I feel. The connection I have with animals is soul-level. It transcends this lifetime. Sometimes I look into their eyes and feel like I’m looking into an ancient mirror—one that reflects forgotten truths, buried wisdom, and past lives. They communicate in vibration, in knowing, in presence. And I often wonder if they’re my guardians more than I am theirs.

They ground me. They remind me how to love without expectation. They teach me about grief and joy, about play and silence, about returning home to myself. They’ve sat beside me when I wept. They’ve made me laugh in ways only pure-hearted beings can. They are my family, my teachers, my soul companions.

And through them, I’m learning how to live more fully. More honestly. More soulfully.

Have you ever felt that, too? That inexplicable connection? The kind that defies logic or words? The kind that feels like a soul remembering another soul? Maybe you’ve glimpsed it—in how your dog sits beside you when you’re down, or how your cat curls into your chest with perfect timing. Maybe it’s subtle, but you know. That this isn’t the first life you’ve shared.

And if you haven’t felt it yet, that’s okay. Sometimes, it begins with noticing—really noticing—the life behind their eyes. The presence they carry. The wisdom they hold.

What if your time with them wasn’t just routine, but communion?

What if they are your mirror, your reminder, your guide back to what matters?

So, take a breath. Take a moment. Look into their eyes and soften. Let your body slow to their rhythm. Let yourself stay.

Today, one of the dogs looked up at me, quiet, patient, full of knowing. If I imagined his voice, it might have said: “We’re here when you’re ready.”

No rush. No shame. No pressure. Just a loving, spacious invitation. And so, this is me saying: I’m ready. I’m returning. Without obligation, but with my whole heart.

Because they remember. And now, I do, too.