Navigating Grief with a Foggy Lens

This week I celebrated another year of life.

Two days later, I helped a small life finish hers.

There is something disorienting about joy and grief sitting that close together.

One moment you’re blowing out candles.
The next, you’re holding a trembling body in a car, whispering goodbye.

Suki lived from 2009 to 2026.
I didn’t have all of her years — but I had the honor of her final ones.

And those final years weren’t tidy.

They were pee pads and medication schedules.
Interrupted sleep.
Arthritic legs that shook when she tried to stand.
Moments of compassion mixed with moments of exhaustion and frustration mixed with fierce protectiveness. 

Four animals I wasn’t prepared to take in.  A decision that cost comfort but preserved family.

In January 2024, I took in four animals when logic — and several friends — said no. Housing costs were rising. Rent was unrealistic. My sister had nowhere else to go with them. My mother was already overwhelmed.

So I chose what felt right, even when it wasn’t easy.

Sukie often barked. She was needy. She was blind, going deaf and aging out. Sukie was the chunkiest of all the dogs, and my favorite one.

And she was a good dog.

Now the dog bed is gone. The house feels quieter than I expected. I miss holding her, even though some days tending to her felt like a chore. I miss seeing her wander slowly across the floor. I miss the weight of her in my arms when I held her.

I’ve never had to put down a dog before. My brain and heart are still trying to understand what just happened.

Grief doesn’t always feel dramatic. It feels foggy. It feels like replaying moments and wondering if you were patient enough. It feels like missing the very thing that once exhausted you.

We live in a loud world. There is always another headline, another crisis, another thing demanding our attention. And yet here we are, navigating complex lives through foggy lenses — carrying private grief that doesn’t trend or go viral.

Sunshine and rain. Joy and pain. All in the same week.

I’m learning that resilient transitions aren’t about clarity. They are about finishing well — even when it costs you sleep, money, and tears.

I didn’t get all her years. But I got the honor of her final ones.

And that counts.

Caregiving rarely looks heroic.

It looks inconvenient.
It looks foggy.
It looks like doing the right thing when your nervous system is already tired.

There were nights I didn’t wake up immediately.
Mornings when I felt frustrated.
Moments I questioned whether I was patient enough.

And yet, every day I still said, “Good girl, Suki.”
I still fed her.
I still gave the medicine she didn’t like.
I still made space.

That’s the part grief magnifies — not just the loss, but the second-guessing.

Courtesy of  https://www.PetHealthCare.co.za 2024. 

Did I do enough?
Was I gentle enough?
Should I have done more?

If dogs could talk, I’m pretty sure she would say,
“You did more than enough.”

The truth is, thriving after hard seasons doesn’t feel triumphant in the middle of it. It feels blurry.

We are all trying to navigate complex lives through foggy lenses.

The online world is loud. There are crises, headlines, political noise, economic pressure, algorithmic comparison. Everyone seems to be winning, scaling, launching, achieving.

And yet — here we are.

Still waking up.
Still grieving quietly.
Still choosing integrity over convenience.
Still trying to make sense of our place in the world.

Resilient transitions aren’t aesthetic. They are lived. They are messy. They are walking forward even when your vision is blurred by tears, fatigue, or uncertainty.

This season taught me something I carry into every room I speak in:

Finishing well matters.

It matters in leadership.
It matters in family.
It matters in caregiving.
It matters in business.
It matters in life.

I didn’t get more years with her. I wish I had. But more years might have meant more suffering. What I did get was the chance to provide safety, dignity, and presence in her final chapter.

And that counts.

Ten Tips on Coping with Pet Loss

Be kind to yourself as you prepare for the “new normal” of a life without your beloved pet.

If you’re navigating your own foggy season — whether it’s loss, transition, overwhelm, or quiet grief no one sees — you’re not weak.

You’re human.

You don’t have to rush clarity.
You don’t have to monetize your pain.
You don’t have to look strong to be strong.

Sometimes resilience is simply this:

You loved fully.
You showed up imperfectly.
You finished well.
And you keep going.

What a time to be alive.

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If You’re Navigating Pet Loss, You’re Not Alone

Grief over an animal companion is real. If you’re walking through this season, here are a few supportive resources:

🐾 Pet Loss Support

• Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement (APLB) – free online chat rooms and moderated support.

• Many veterinary schools host virtual pet loss support groups (search “pet loss support” + your nearest veterinary college).

💬 Counseling

• Look for therapists who specialize in pet loss or companion animal grief.

• If you already have a therapist, bring it up. This grief is legitimate.

🕯 Personal Rituals

• Write a goodbye letter.

• Create a small memorial corner.

• Donate to a local shelter in their name.

• Light a candle on meaningful dates.

Grief doesn’t mean you loved too much.

It means the bond was real.