The Love We Have in Common

Nami was happiest out in nature, exploring and going on adventures with me.

After sharing my first story about Nami, I heard from people who are grieving dogs they loved.

Their words stayed with me.

I wrote about how, over time, my memories began to bring more gratitude than sadness. But for some people, those memories are still very painful. A photograph does not bring a smile. A favorite walking trail is still too difficult to visit.

I wanted to acknowledge that.

I am sharing my own experience here. I don’t want anyone reading my words to feel they should be somewhere else in their grief.

You may feel very differently from me.

I hope you will feel welcome here too.

Three years after losing Nami, I can feel grateful for our life together and still wish, more than anything, that she were beside me. If I could have another ordinary afternoon with her, I would take it in a heartbeat.

One more walk. No special plans.

Just us.

Lately, I have been thinking about love and attachment.

I find it difficult to separate them completely. I loved Nami for who she was. And I was attached to having her in my everyday life. I wanted to see her face when I came home. I expected us to have more adventures, more years.

There was nothing wrong with wanting those things.

But losing her has made me wonder how I can continue loving her when I can no longer have the life I wanted with her.

I am still learning.

For me, part of that has been noticing the fear mixed in with my grief.

The fear of forgetting little things about her.

The fear that feeling happy again somehow meant I was leaving her behind.

And the guilt that brought me back to the same questions, even when there were no new answers.

Those feelings came from a very tender place. I wanted to protect her. I wanted more time. I could not bear that our life together had ended so suddenly.

I often think about love and fear, and how much they influence the way we live.

I want to give more attention to love.

That does not mean I can simply decide to stop hurting. Sometimes it means noticing how I am speaking to myself. Would I speak this harshly to a friend who had lost her dog? Would I judge her for something she could not have known?

Probably not.

I would listen. I would understand why she wished things had been different. I would remember how much she loved her dog.

I am trying to offer myself some of that same kindness.

When I can, I return to memories of Nami enjoying her life. Exploring a trail. Having fun. Being completely herself.

And when remembering hurts, I don’t have to turn it into a lesson or find something positive in it.

I can just miss her.

I also want to be careful not to assume I understand someone else’s grief simply because I have experienced my own.

We each had a different life with our dog. A different goodbye. We have different beliefs, different support, and things we may never find words for.

What comforts me may not comfort you.

I can share what has helped me, and I can listen to what it is like for you.

We all loved a dog. We still do.

That is something we have in common, even when everything else about our grief feels different.

You don’t have to feel grateful today. You don’t have to have found peace or meaning in what happened.

If you would like to tell me about your dog, I would love to hear.

Their name. Their funny habits. What you miss.

There is room for your memories here, however they feel today.

With love,Yoko