With humanity largely absent, the animals have taken back over the world at times. The images are breathtaking, and as we go back, how do we color that picture? And what about our pets? Will they now get lonely?
There was something about those early days of lockdown that made the world feel strangely honest. Cities went silent, and in the quiet, the animals stepped back into view. Deer wandered down streets that weren’t built for them. Elephants strolled through villages. Birds reclaimed the sky without competing with us. Even alligators took leisurely walks on sidewalks like they owned the place.
It all looked so natural—almost as if the world had been waiting for us to step aside.
What struck me most, as these photos poured in from everywhere, was how beautiful those empty spaces looked. Paris at night with no crowds. Small-town America lit up but completely still. European squares that usually hold thousands standing open and calm. When the world isn’t filled with us, the architecture breathes, the colors deepen, and the truth of the place shines through.
And in every one of those pictures, one thing was missing: us.
We were at home.
When humans step out of a space, nature steps back in. But inside our homes, the opposite happened: our pets got more of us than they ever had before. Dogs going on long walks every day. Cats getting attention at hours they never expected. Animals who spent most of their lives waiting for people to return from work suddenly had their humans 24 hours a day.
My son told me his dog, Leo, was thriving—soaking it all in. For him, this was paradise. And it made me think about what happens next.
As the world reopens, the wildlife will retreat again. The fox in the square will vanish. The deer will disappear into the trees. The beautiful quiet will fade.
And at the same time, the animals in our homes will begin to lose us again.
This isn’t a guilt trip. It’s an invitation.
During those weeks and months indoors, we spent more time with ourselves than we expected. We found out what we actually needed, what we didn’t, and what we’d been ignoring. Some of that came with discomfort, but some of it brought clarity.
So the question becomes simple:
What are we taking back with us?
And what are we leaving behind?
If we return to the world carrying only what matters—attention, presence, the memory of how stillness feels—maybe we create more space for the world around us, including the creatures who shared it with us before we ever arrived.
And when we come home, maybe we don’t forget the pets who had the full version of us for so long. Maybe we bring a little of that presence back to them too.
The only difference between those breathtaking empty photographs and the crowded cities we know is our presence. We are the variable. We can choose how we show up.
So as you step back into the world, hold on to some of that quiet. Remember the fox in the street. Remember the dog at your feet. Remember that our presence changes the shape of the world—sometimes more than we realize.