When Animals Help Heal the Mother Wound
- Fabienne
- Aug 18
- 6 min read
Updated: Sep 3
Have you ever noticed your animal leaning closer when you’re upset, or refusing to settle until you do? These tender moments often hold clues to a deeper story -- one that reaches back into our own unmet needs.
The mother wound is a tender and often hidden imprint that can quietly shape how we relate to ourselves, others, and even the animals we live with. It stems from the emotional pain, patterns, or beliefs that arise when our core needs for nurturing, safety, attunement, and unconditional love weren’t fully met by our mother or maternal figure.
You don’t have to come from a “bad” family to carry a mother wound. These imprints are often intergenerational, passed down through lineages of women (and men) who themselves never had the space or support to mother with presence, softness, or consistency. And because we live in systems that sometimes devalue softness, rest, and emotional presence, many mothers were asked to override their own needs, leaving their children with both the lack of attunement and the silent message that care and love must be earned. This is how the mother wound ripples into adulthood, shaping how we parent, partner, and also how we care for ourselves.
A story of healing beneath the surface
When Emma first reached out to me, it was because her dog May had started acting out: barking at night, pacing the house, and refusing to eat unless Emma sat close by. At first glance, it seemed like anxiety. But as we explored more deeply, it became clear: something in Emma’s emotional world was shifting, and May was responding.
Emma had recently begun therapy to work through early childhood patterns. “I don’t know why,” she told me, “but lately I feel like I’m falling apart. And May… it’s like she’s carrying something for me.”
As we talked, Emma began to reflect on how often she felt she had to hold it all together. How she’d spent her whole life being “the good one,” the reliable one, the one who made sure everyone else was okay. And how lonely this sometimes felt.
She described how, at night, May would sit pressed against her leg, refusing to settle unless Emma’s hand rested gently on her fur. Emma noticed how May’s wide, watchful eyes seemed to ask, “Are you okay? -- a look that pierced right through her own attempts to stay composed. For Emma, those moments were both tender and unsettling: to feel so seen, so held by her dog, when she herself felt fragile.
Perhaps you’ve noticed your own animal leaning close when your heart feels heavy, or pulling away when you’ve been unsettled inside. These small moments are often their way of attuning to what we carry, even when we can’t name it yet.
Our animals feel it, too
May had been Emma’s companion for seven years: loyal, sweet, and often her emotional anchor. But when they first came to me, she was showing signs of restlessness, hyper-vigilance, and clinging. It was as if May didn’t know whether Emma was safe. An uncertainty that exhausted them both.
In my work, I’ve seen this often. Animals who begin to mirror, react to, or even absorb emotional patterns their humans are carrying. Not out of burden, but from a place of soul-level connection. Their nervous systems are wired for deep attunement. Much like infants, they regulate themselves by sensing into the energy and state of those they trust. Because our bond with them is so intimate, they often “pick up” what we are not yet able or prepared to fully feel. This doesn’t mean they suffer in our place, but rather that they lean closer to us, inviting balance and awareness.
A dog may become overly protective when we feel emotionally exposed.
A cat may withdraw when we seek closeness but haven’t yet learned to feel safe in receiving love. Like Luna, a cat I once worked with, who would slip away when her human Rita tried to scoop her up in moments of sadness. It might have felt like rejection, but Luna was showing Rita something else: a part of her that had never learned how to feel safe in receiving closeness. As Rita practiced softening toward her own need to be held, Luna began curling back into her lap, not out of pity, but in quiet recognition of the shift.
Just as Luna showed Rita what closeness meant, other animals reveal different aspects of our healing…
An animal might become ill, lethargic, or disruptive when we abandon our own needs, showing us what’s been long neglected inside.
And sometimes, as with Emma, our animals begin to mother us -- offering the presence, steadiness, and attunement we longed for but never fully received.
I’ve also witnessed horses standing completely still beside someone in deep grief, their warm breath rising in the cold air, their calm presence holding a field of safety that words could never provide.
An invitation to heal together
What I often witness is not just reflection, but invitation. Our animals invite us to become the parent we didn’t have: to soothe our nervous systems, to care for our inner child, to listen inward with kindness rather than judgment.
As Emma began to tend to her emotional landscape -- validating the grief, naming the unmet needs, allowing space for her vulnerability -- May began to soften. The pacing eased. The night barking stopped. Emma learned how to hold herself in moments of overwhelm… and in turn, May no longer had to do it for her.
This is the beauty of healing the mother wound with animals:
· They respond to our inner shifts with trust, regulation, and calm.
· They no longer need to mirror the chaos we’re finally giving space to.
· They begin to rest, because we are learning how to rest inside ourselves.
If you notice similar patterns in your own bond with your animal, here are a few easy and gentle practices to try:
Place a hand on your heart when your animal is restless and breathe slowly until both of you soften.
Write a short letter to your younger self, offering the words you longed to hear.
Create a tiny ritual of mothering yourself daily, like making tea, wrapping up in a blanket, or asking your animal to sit beside you as you rest.
A soul agreement?
It’s not uncommon for animals to arrive in our lives just as we’re ready to begin this kind of healing. Sometimes, they seem to carry the blueprint of unconditional love we didn’t grow up with. Other times, they gently challenge our old patterns, helping us see where we’ve been stuck in roles or responses that no longer serve us.
I often wonder if, on some soul level, they come to walk beside us not just as companions, but as guides. Some feel like nurturers, holding us steady with warmth and affection. Others show up as protectors, helping us set boundaries. And still others play the trickster role, pushing us to break old habits or laugh at ourselves when we take life too seriously. In this way, they embody archetypes that remind us of the many ways love can take form.
Guides who help us:
Reclaim our voice, our needs, our right to receive
Grieve what we didn’t get and offer it now, with tenderness
Trust in safe connection, without overgiving or losing ourselves
Reconnect to the quiet knowing that we are already enough
Walking the healing path together
Emma once said to me, “May was the first being who ever looked at me like I was whole. Maybe she’s helping me believe it.”
I think many of us have a version of that story. Perhaps your animal has been the one to stay close when you felt unlovable, or to nudge you out of hiding when you wanted to disappear. These are not coincidences. They are invitations.
If your animal seems to be mirroring something in you, or if you’ve been feeling like deep inner work is rippling through your shared field, you’re not imagining it. These bonds are sacred. And sometimes, they’re also alchemical.
When we tend to our own wounds, we free our animals from carrying them -- and together, we step into a field of deeper safety, trust, and love.
With warmth and possibility,
Fabienne
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