What If There Are Many Rainbow Bridges?

We’re so pleased to welcome Colleen Kersey as a guest blogger on The Parted Paw this month. Colleen is an animal communicator who we have had the pleasure of working with and someone we have come to know as extremely talented, resourceful and reliable in her practice.

In her guest post, Colleen shares some thoughts on her chosen career path as an animal communicator, her experiences connecting with pets and pet parents, and her work speaking to and connecting with my sweet Georgia girl 💙

What if there were many Rainbow Bridges?

When we think about where our animals go when they die, many of us picture the Rainbow Bridge.

The stereotypical image of a beautiful meadow, sunshine, healthy bodies and our beloved animals running happily around together, waiting for the day we will cross the bridge and be reunited with them. It is a beautiful and comforting image.

But after several years of communicating with animals who have died, I have come to realise something rather unexpected:

There ISN’T a Rainbow Bridge.

Well… there isn’t ONE Rainbow Bridge.

Let me explain…

Every animal I have spoken to has shown me something slightly different.

Sometimes I am shown beautiful gardens, with people and animals, some familiar, some unknown. Sometimes there are wide open spaces, rolling green hills and trees. Sometimes an animal is simply resting peacefully beneath a tree.

And occasionally, I have experienced something that feels less physical altogether: ribbons or waves of golden light, an almost etheric space.

There is no single landscape that appears again and again. What does appear again and again is the feeling. Peace. Deep, profound peace. And perhaps that is what matters most.

So where are they?

When I connect with an animal who has died, I don't decide beforehand what their Rainbow Bridge should look like.

I connect specifically with that animal, setting the intention that I am communicating with them and them alone, and I allow them to show me what they want me to experience.

And this is one of the things I find most fascinating about this work. If there really was one standardised place that every animal went to, I would expect to see the same thing repeatedly.

Instead, I see individuality.

Just as our animals have their own personalities, quirks, relationships and ways of experiencing the world during their physical lives, they seem to have their own experiences after death too.

One of the most beautiful examples of this for me was a dog called Georgia. With her guardian's permission, I want to share part of her story.

When I first connected with Georgia, I found myself standing in a place covered in snow. There were mountains and valleys, and rolling hills, and a beautiful lake with crystal clear water. There is a wonderful sense all round of stillness.

I became aware of Georgia; I could feel how enormous her energy was, almost like she had become the size of a bear. But initially, I couldn't see her. I was looking around, expecting to find her somewhere in this beautiful landscape. And then I realized she was sitting right in front of me.

I had been so busy looking for her that I had missed her. It struck me afterwards that there was something quite profound about that. Perhaps sometimes we are so busy looking for our animals after they die that we miss what is right in front of us?

What does it feel like to be there?

The overwhelming feeling I receive from animals who have transitioned is peace.

This doesn't mean they have forgotten us. Quite the opposite. 

They remember their lives. 

They remember their people. 

They remember the love between them. 

And they miss us…

But the quality of that ‘missing’ feels very different from the grief we experience as humans.

There is no sense of the debilitating sadness that can accompany human bereavement. Instead, there seems to be a much greater understanding of the ‘bigger picture’.

This is difficult to explain, but it feels as though, at transition, animals suddenly have access to a much greater knowing. They understand WHY things happened as they did. They understand their lives in a much broader context. They understand the relationships they had and what those relationships meant. This is also why I have come to believe that our animals may have lived more than one life. That is not something I expect everyone to believe, it is simply something I have encountered repeatedly in my work. And if that is the case, perhaps death isn't an ending in the way we imagine it. Perhaps it is a change of perspective.

The questions we ask when we are grieving

One of the hardest things about losing an animal isn't always the loss itself.

Sometimes it is everything we DON’T know.

Were they frightened?

Were they in pain?

Did they know we loved them?

Did we do enough?

Did we make the right decision?

Did they feel abandoned?

Are they angry with us?

These questions can torment us, particularly when we have had to make the decision to let an animal go. Georgia had something very important to say about this.

The circumstances behind Georgia’s passing were difficult, and her guardian had asked whether she was angry with her.

Georgia's response was almost wonderfully indignant: You should know me better than that.

She couldn't imagine being angry with the person she loved so deeply. And when we talked about her life, one of the strongest messages she gave was that her guardian had done everything she could. She said, in essence, that what her person had done for her throughout her life had been perfect for her. Her guardian had done her best, at the time, with what she had. She had honoured Georgia and loved her.

And Georgia couldn't have asked for more than that.

That is a message I have heard in different forms many times.

We judge ourselves with the knowledge we have now.

But our animals seem to look at the whole story. They don't appear to keep a list of our mistakes. They remember the love.

And what about the moment of death?

This is another enormous fear for many bereaved guardians.

Georgia's physical body had been struggling for some time. She was uncomfortable, and there was pain towards the very end, but what came through very clearly was that she wasn't frightened. She knew what was happening. Her feeling was almost a calm recognition:

Oh. It's this. Okay. Here we go. Let's do this.

There was no sense of panic.

Many people torture themselves over whether their animal suffered, whether they should have done something differently, or whether their animal felt betrayed by the decision to let them go. What I experience in this work is very different - our animals seem to understand far more than we give them credit for, and they always trust, deeply, any difficult decisions that their guardians have to make on their behalf.

Perhaps they aren't simply watching over us

One of the most beautiful moments in Georgia's communication came when I told her guardian that Georgia was ‘watching over her’. Georgia immediately corrected me. 

She wasn't watching over her.

She was there next to her.

That tiny distinction has stayed with me.

We often imagine our animals somewhere 'up there', looking down at us from a distance. But perhaps the continuing relationship isn't necessarily about watching. Perhaps it is about presence.

Our relationship with an animal doesn't have to disappear simply because their physical body has.

That doesn't mean we should expect to see them, hear them or receive obvious signs every day. Not everyone experiences signs, and I would never tell someone that they should.

But many people do experience little moments after a loss.

A familiar smell.

The sound of claws on the floor.

A fleeting movement in the corner of an eye.

A dream that feels different from an ordinary dream.

A sudden feeling that their animal is close.

Sometimes the experience is incredibly subtle.

And sometimes we may simply feel their presence without being able to explain why.

Georgia seemed to have a particularly playful way of making herself known. I repeatedly experienced the image of her rear end and tail swishing as though she was walking ahead of me. It made me wonder whether she was still doing what she had always done in life - leading the way.

Love doesn't end at the Rainbow Bridge

Georgia's life was extraordinary.

When she arrived with her guardian, she seemed to carry the scars of a difficult past. She was heartbroken, lacking confidence and unsure whether she could trust the world. Her guardian changed that. She taught Georgia that she was safe. That she was wanted. That touch could be gentle. That food, exercise, fresh air, companionship and sleep could all be enjoyed without fear.

And Georgia, in turn, transformed her guardian's life.

Their relationship eventually led to the creation of The Parted Paw, a business that grew from Georgia's story and became part of her legacy.

Georgia was incredibly proud of it. She didn't see it simply as something her guardian had created because she had died. She saw it as something they had created together. And perhaps that is another way our animals remain with us. Not only through signs or spiritual experiences, but through everything they changed while they were here.

The person we became because of them.

The work we were inspired to do because of them.

The people we met because of them.

The lives we touched because they first touched ours.

You don't have to know exactly what you believe

I don't think we need to have all the answers.

You don't have to decide whether the Rainbow Bridge is a literal place, a spiritual reality, a metaphor, or simply a beautiful way humans have found to imagine what comes after death.

And you don't have to believe in animal communication.

All I can tell you is what I have experienced.

Every animal I have communicated with has shown me something different about their experience after death.

But beneath all those different landscapes, gardens, hills, trees, familiar places and fields of light, there is one remarkable consistency:

They are at peace. They remember. They understand.

And the love that they shared with their people has not now somehow become meaningless because their physical body is gone.

Perhaps there isn't one Rainbow Bridge because there doesn't need to be.

Perhaps each animal has their own place, their own experience and their own way of continuing their journey.

And perhaps, just as importantly, they haven't necessarily left us behind. We are just so busy looking for them that we don't realise they are there.

Sometimes, like Georgia, they may simply be sitting right there beside us.