Grieving with Love

Grief is something we all go through at different points in our lives. It’s pretty unavoidable. I’ve experienced it multiple times—through the loss of relationships, friends, loved ones—but this time feels different. Maybe not softer, but clearer. I’ve been reflecting on how I’m allowing myself to move through it now, in a way that feels much healthier than I ever could in the past.

In the past, I didn’t want to feel the sadness. I was scared of what was on the other side of it. So I numbed. I distracted myself. I avoided the grief and all the ways it tried to reach me—because I thought grief meant loss, and loss meant something was gone forever.

But I’ve learned through ceremony and through time that the sadness is not separate from the beauty. When I allow myself to feel the sadness, I also allow myself to feel the love. The memories. The joy. When I cut myself off from grief, I was also cutting myself off from all of that. I’ve learned to sit with my emotions. To feel the feelings I’m afraid to feel. Not to fix them or label them, not to blame or control—but to allow.

The grief I’m feeling now is deep. I just lost my best friend of over 16 years—my dog, Lily. She was with me through the darkest parts of my life. She was the one stable, good thing in a very chaotic journey. And somehow, she stayed by my side long enough to see me to the happiest place I’ve ever been. It feels like she held on to make sure I got here. That says something about her spirit. About her love.

But it wasn’t a job. She didn’t stay because she had to. She stayed because she loved me. Fully. Unconditionally. She taught me what love looks like when it doesn’t ask for anything in return.

Her loss is something I dreaded from the moment I got her. I knew this day would come. But I also know now I don’t want to grieve in a way that makes me forget. I don’t want to be afraid to say her name out loud. I don’t want to avoid the pictures or the memories just because they bring tears. I want to feel it. Because when I feel it, I feel her. I feel the love. I feel the connection that still exists, even if she’s not here in the way she used to be.

“It came to me that every time I lose a dog they take a piece of my heart with them, and every new dog who comes into my life gives me a piece of their heart. If I live long enough, all the components of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are.”

Grief comes in waves. That metaphor really resonates with me. At first, the waves crash over you one after another, with no space to breathe. Everything reminds you of what you’ve lost. And all you can do is hold on—to a photo, a collar, a soft memory.

Over time, the waves are still big, but they come with more space between them. And between the waves, there is life. There is breath. There are small, ordinary moments where you remember how to laugh or make dinner or take a walk without crumbling.

Eventually, you learn to recognize the waves when they come. You brace for them. They still crash, but you know you’ll make it out the other side. Soaked, heart aching—but alive.

And the waves never really stop. I’m learning not to wish they would. Because if they stopped, it would mean I stopped remembering. I stopped feeling. And I don’t want that. I want the waves. I want the tears. I want the memories that bring me back to her.

This grief is not a wound to be closed. It’s love continuing to move through me. And I’m letting it.