I lost my dog a while ago, and ever since then I’ve been trying to comfort myself with the usual things—telling myself she’s in a better place, that her purpose in my life was fulfilled, that maybe this was how things were meant to be.
But today it finally hit me. I stopped pretending.
I said the words I’ve been dreading to admit:
God, just give me my dog back.
I just want her back.
And honestly… it felt weirdly good to finally say it. Not good because the pain is gone—it's not. But good because it was the truth I’ve been choking back for so long. I think saying it out loud let me stop performing acceptance I wasn’t ready for. It let me stop trying to be strong or wise about something that just hurts. It felt like taking a deep breath after holding it in for months.
All this time I’ve been trying to find meaning, trying to be okay, trying to accept it. But the truth is I don’t want acceptance. I want her. I want her back in my arms, in my home, in my life. I want her tail wagging, her footsteps, her warmth, her everything.
I don’t even know what I’m looking for by writing this. Maybe I just needed somewhere to say it out loud. I guess my grief is brutally honest today.