From grief to greater understanding

Profound loss can become more—so much more than just grief. In recent years, I’ve lost my pops, my mom, and most recently, my beloved Saint Bernard, Ben. Each of them took a piece of my heart with them, yet somehow left me with even more than I ever realized in their passing. Sometimes, we have a deep connection with another soul, even if it’s a four-legged one. Ben’s early departure from this world has shaken me to the core, but it also became the catalyst for enormous change. It feels as though he left us with purpose—as if his leaving was meant to awaken something inside me. His love, just like my parents’ love, is still here, surrounding me, guiding me through this chapter. They don’t leave; they simply change form. I can feel Ben’s presence beside me, even now.

Losing him so young to cancer—it was heartbreakingly unfair. It took me two months to understand that his loss, as painful as it was, was part of a path meant to propel me forward. With my parents, I had the gift of time. I got to say all the things I needed to say, to ask all the questions I needed to ask. They lived full, rich lives, and that made their passing easier to bear.

But loss has been a constant companion in my life, and not just with my parents and Ben. I’ve never spoken publicly about it, but losing my niece at age 24 in a tragic car accident left a wound that never fully healed. She was on her way to spend the weekend with me on the farm, full of life, only to lose control of her car in Worcester. I had to identify her body at the morgue—those are moments that change you forever. When I went to identify Tanna, I was completely alone. It was one of the hardest moments of my life—driving to the morgue, knowing what awaited me. But in the midst of that unbearable grief, a small light appeared. The tow truck driver who had come to recover her wrecked car went far beyond his duty. He met me at the hospital and stayed with me, helped me collect Tanna’s belongings from the car, and without hesitation, accompanied me to the police station and the morgue. I’ll never forget his kindness.

There are such incredible people in this life, people who give of themselves without expecting anything in return. In that darkest moment, he was a stranger who offered me support and compassion when I needed it most. And for that, I will always be grateful. The weight of that loss is something I’ve carried with me, though I can only imagine the deeper impact it had on her parents and siblings. Losing someone so young is a kind of grief that feels unnatural, almost unbearable. And yet, I feel her with me too—Tan Tan, in the form of a Cape Robin, coming to say hello and offer her presence in the quiet moments when I need it most.

I believe in those signs. I believe in the love that transcends, the souls that come to guide us in different ways. My mom, my dad, Tanna, Ben, and so many furry companions that have passed—they are all still with me, in one way or another. I am blessed, not just because I had them in life, but because I still feel them in spirit. Now, after all this time, I can finally say I am at peace. I’ve processed these tragic losses, not by letting go, but by embracing the way they continue to shape and guide me on this journey. As I write this, the tears are flowing, tears of loss, but mostly tears of gratitude for finding the light in the darkness. I am so profoundly thankful for being able to finally embrace these emotions rather than keeping them locked away.