Grief is a bitch. And then you get puppies.

I can’t stop crying.

My beloved dog Chowder died unexpectedly. We rescued him from the animal shelter years ago, and he has repaid us with unwavering, unconditional love every single day.

I was his person. He loved me. He followed me everywhere, was my shadow, and not in a needy way, just in a “You are my person, and I shall forever devote my life to adoring you” sort of way.

Friday morning, I found him dead and cold, stretched out by the wood stove in front of the door, an image which has given me intense PTSD. I don’t wish this horror on anyone.

It has been two weeks since that morning, and time hasn’t relieved my grief at all. Maybe it has even gotten worse.

I had to teach and host a retreat at our homestead the day after Chowder died. I almost cancelled it, but eight people had signed up, some of them already on their way travelling up here from California. A rational part of me knew that pulling off this two-day retreat would help me get my mind off my grief, and it did. The participants were sweet, supportive, and let me cry whenever I needed to.

And then they left, and the sorrow really hit.

I could have powered through my days, keeping the coaching appointments already scheduled on my calendar, as many as four a day. The workaholic German in me, the one that even shows up to coaching appointments with a stomach flu, the one that is so proud of all her integrity and loyalty, she wanted to push through and show up for her clients.

But then there was the part of me that crumpled and had nothing left to give, and she won.

She was the one going into nature to cry by the creek, she was the one hiking up mountains to soothe her soul, she was the one reaching out to a select few people who she knew could be in her grief with her.

I’ve experienced grief before, oh yes, I have. And I know that time does heal, that time makes the feelings less intense and raw.  I also know that grief can hit you years later, triggered by a memory, a place, a smell, a touch.

And yet, the force of my grief surprises me every time. How it knocks me down, how it makes me want to hide and isolate.

One of the second arrows of my grief is how I compare myself to others, how I fear their judgement. For example, although my kids cried that first morning when Chowder died, they seemed fine and normal, even able to laugh the same day. I found myself judging them, resenting them, even being angry at them for their reactions.  Or I judged myself for the intensity of my feelings, wondering if this was normal, especially since other people can move on faster.

Another fear creeping in was that others judged me for the depth of my despair, that my feelings weren’t appropriate or acceptable. This has happened before, where I expressed my strong emotions and then people I trusted suggested I go on medication.

trusted suggested I go on medication.

Here is what I say to that: Fuck that!

If you are anything like me, if you are an empath who feels things DEEPLY, and if you wonder if you are too much, if your emotions are too much, let me tell you:

Your feelings matter. Your feelings are telling you something. Don’t let anyone EVER tell you how you should feel, or how deeply your feelings are deemed appropriate.  We are all different, we feel things differently, and most importantly, we grieve differently.

The day of the retreat I sent out a message on Facebook, asking people for support in sending me prayers, love, light, or whatever energy they could spare so I could pull off this retreat.  I received an incredible outpouring of love from my community.  Many people shared about the depths of their grief when they lost a furry friend.  This is real.

I was guided to a litter of Shih Tzu puppies, and a couple of days ago we drove all the way to Wenatchee to meet them and see if I could connect with one.

I did. She is the red one, a little sweetie, and she kept licking me.  It looks like we’ll take her home in three weeks when she’s old enough.  I will forever miss my Chowder, and I know that this little red puppy will steal my heart as well.

And I will allow this love in and not hold back, even though I know it will break my heart later on, unless I die first.

So dear one? Feel your grief. Express it. Let yourself be supported by people who get it. Take as long as it takes.