I thought I understood grief. I’ve had my share of loss and heartache, and I thought I’d built a mental toolkit for navigating it. I thought I could handle mourning my soul puppy, the dog who had been my rock through so much.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
This grief feels different. It’s raw, relentless, and uncharted territory. And if I’m honest, it’s bringing out some things I’m not proud of — things that scare me.
“I buried both my parents before I hit 40. I thought I could handle this.”
Yeah… bullshit.
There’s something about losing Pete that’s knocked the wind out of me in a way I didn’t see coming. Through so many of life’s trials, he was my constant. Losing him feels like losing a part of myself.
When life felt impossible — eviction notices, job losses, watching my sister fight cancer from a thousand miles away, getting displaced at the height of a global pandemic — he was there. Through all those moments of chaos and fear, there was one steady denominator: Pete.
And now, his ashes sit in a box.
When people ask me how I’m doing, I usually brush it off with something surface level like, “I’m tired.” And while that’s not a lie — I am absolutely exhausted — the truth is, I’ve never felt this kind of grief before, and I don’t know how to handle it.
It’s manifesting in ways I’ve never experienced:
- Anxiety that’s physical. I’ve dealt with anxiety before, but this is different — swimming thoughts, shallow breathing, and a rapid heartbeat that makes me feel untethered.
- Anger that’s foreign to me. I’m usually laid-back, but I find myself withdrawing from people because I don’t trust my temper.
- Insomnia that won’t let up. I can’t remember the last time I got a good night’s sleep. I wake up at all hours, restless and haunted by memories of his final day.
- Rumination that won’t stop. Instead of cherishing the decade of joy we shared, I replay the pain of his last breath over and over again.
Even the small things feel overwhelming. The other day, I tore my place apart searching for my glasses, only to find them sitting right beside me on the bed. I’d absentmindedly set them down as I was watching TV.
Moments like that make me feel like I’m losing touch with myself.
And then there’s the stress eating — I polished off half a bag of chips last night without even noticing.
I know the only way out is through. I’ve been here before. I hate it, but I know the truth of it. Still, part of me feels like I don’t have the time to grieve.
I want to move forward with my life, my work, my goals. I rewrote the ending of The Eternal Encore recently, crafting a beautiful full-circle moment that I’m proud of. I even had a fantastic call with potential business partners that reminded me of what’s possible.
But grief doesn’t respect timelines. It doesn’t care about productivity.
There are moments of progress, and then there are moments when I feel like a stranger to myself.
This December feels particularly heavy. It marks the 10th anniversary of my dad’s passing, and that weight, combined with losing my dog, is almost too much. Some days, it feels like this grief will never end, like it will always be here, pressing on my chest.
But deep down, I know it will ease. It has to.
For now, I’ll keep pressing forward, step by step, trusting that someday the pain will feel less sharp.
If only I could pet Pete one more time. That simple act would be the grounding comfort I need.
But for now, all I can do is remember, grieve, and keep going.
The only way out is through.
God, this sucks.
