I had an experience a few weeks ago when my much beloved horse Silver died. And while I’ve been teaching sovereignty for decades, it really struck me what a privilege it is for a non-human to die on their own terms, Most are killed long before their bodies or souls are ready.

Slaughtered in systems designed for efficiency. Culled for policy. Poisoned as inconvenience. Lost in floods and fires they didn’t create.

Even companion animals are often hurried toward the end — sometimes wisely, sometimes fearfully — under the banner of avoiding suffering.

But death is not only a medical event. It’ s also a spiritual one.

I have lived beside the dying process for decades. As a holistic practitioner, as an interspecies telepath and a sanctuary carer. As someone who has held sacred space for more souls at the threshold than I can count.

And I have learned something that is rarely spoken about.

When allowed, death has its own intelligence. It’s own peace. It’s own beauty. Every soul has a portal.

I have many amazing stories learned from sitting with death. From the sanctuary animals but also thousands of clients around the world. Stories that would open your heart. Amazing stories of transmutation and peace.

But today I want to talk about Silver. Silver was a brumby — a bachelor boy, sensitive and bright.

There is a particular atmosphere that enters a space when a being is preparing to leave. The urgency that so often surrounds illness gives way to something quieter. A gathering.

As we were tending him through those last days, our hunter neighbour appeared.

He offered his “services”. Silver was obviously dying.

Silver was sitting up at the time, eating his favourite hard feed. When the offer was made, this sweet and gentle horse lifted his head and looked directly at the man.

The hurt in his eyes was unmistakable. It hurt me to witness it. I felt all the pain in Silver’s heart. Never underestimate an animal’s capacity to understand us.

Silver hated shooting. He flinched every time a shot rang out across the paddocks. His nervous system knew that sound and recoiled from it. And our neighbour had been shooting so much the year before. It had been like living in a war zone. Silver’s tension created a terrible colic. A system breakdown.

I had been nursing Silver for a while, being his protector while he ate. He told me the medicine of our friendship had meant more than all the medicines he got in his special hard feeds.

Later, our neighbour told my husband that the offer had not been for Silver — it had been for us. We had been out in the heat for days, tending him.

The difference in attitude was stark.

One view saw inconvenience.

The other saw the sacredness off a soul at the threshold of his own completion.

Our neighbour fired a few shots that night, getting “rid of the roos”. I saw Silver again flinch at every shot and make his final decision.

After that, Silver opened up to talk about his life in a way he hadn’t before. He spoke about his soul life. About why he was not going to stay with me this time. About how sensitive he had always been. About how incredibly harsh the world had felt to him. Even in a sanctuary where peace is palpable

He wanted me to tell his story.

The next day, I was sitting in the car beside him when I felt it — the shift.

The electricity in his body had changed. We are electrical beings. When that current alters, you know. And you know the body is in the final stage of shut down.

Silver wanted me present.

I lay beside him on the dirt under the shade cloth in the blazing heat, listening to his breath. It was gentle. Unforced. Peaceful and quiet. I knew nothing could interfere with this sacred moment. I turned off my phone.

He asked me to notice the time of his death. After 40 years of professional work with animals, this was the first request to do that.

At 1:10 pm he took his last soft and peaceful breath. And just like that, he was gone.

The numerology for 1.10pm is interesting, A portal number. Two ones — sovereignty and initiation — returning through zero into union. Reduced, it becomes two. Relationship beyond form. A crossing.

I understood. He was really free. There is always a greater soul purpose. And the “more-than-human” are so much more in touch than humans.

I stayed with his body once it was still. Silver the essence had gone. The world felt duller without him. But I couldn’t leave him. I loved that horse so much.

I was grateful I had not taken up the offer to hurry his leaving. (Not that I would have) Because every soul has a portal. And his had been at 1.10pm.

Cocoa, another bachelor brumby, chose his moment too.

On the morning before he died, I felt something different in the air. Cocoa had made a decision.

When his breath elevated later that day, I knew the decision was not about living.

His brother Peace hovered close. They had been inseparable.

And just as Cocoa took his last breath, the rest of the herd appeared. Their timing was impeccable.

They stood quietly. They sniffed his body in farewell. They were present.

My shamanic teacher used to tell us that death is a natural event, but sometimes like birth, the soul needs assistance. And we were taught the old energy ways to make the soul’s journey easier. There is a huge difference between preventing unbearable suffering and interrupting a sacred passage because we are uncomfortable.

In many veterinary settings, the reflex is to act swiftly — to end decline before it deepens. But I always ask the animal “do you need help?” Surprisingly the answer is usually “no”. They want to make that last sacred journey on their own.

Sometimes, in the urgency to control the outcome, beings are denied the final chapter their body and spirit are already writing. Most animals don’t get the option of completion.

Factory systems don’t allow it. Wildlife management policies don’t allow it. Land clearing doesn’t allow it.

Very few are permitted to finish their arc organically — in familiar surroundings, with herd or human nearby, with their nervous system unwinding rather than exploding.

For humans, we debate autonomy at the end of life. We argue over rights and sovereignty.

For non-humans, the conversation rarely exists.

There is a profound honour in being present for a death that is not forced. An intimacy in lying on the earth beside a breathing body as it gently releases. A responsibility in not hurrying what is already in motion.

To die in peace. To feel safe. To be witnessed. To be loved until the last breath.

That is a gift.

And it is a gift most non-humans are never given.

If we can’t shield them from every brutality of this world, perhaps the least we can offer is dignity at the end. The dignity of presence. The dignity of witness.
The dignity of allowing their own timing. Honouring their sovereignty.

To die on one’s own terms, if you are not human, is an extraordinary grace. Not only do they all deserve it, but in holding sacred space for the dying, we receive peace and transformation as well.