The last five years have been a series of storms, each more unexpected than the last, leaving me breathless and unsure of where I was headed. It began on a spring morning in 2019, a day that felt like any other, until it wasn’t. Four chunks of our roof slid off, crashing to the ground at our feet. In that instant, something in me jolted awake, a sharp, instinctual warning that bigger struggles were on the horizon. Little did I know then how prophetic that moment would be.
Not long after, we faced the heartbreak of having to let go of our sweet, beautiful brown boy, Oskar. The pain was unlike anything I had ever known. If you’ve been through it, you understand the hollow ache, the weight of the emptiness, the gnawing grief that follows when you say goodbye to a beloved pet. But life doesn’t stop for your sorrow, and just a few weeks later, we made an impulsive decision, one born from that raw pain, to bring a new puppy into our lives. Amos Moses, a bouncy bundle of awesome, joined our family, and we thought maybe, just maybe, we can start on the path of recovery.
Then, the unimaginable happened. Four weeks after Amos arrived, we had to say goodbye to our other dog, Steve. A tumor wrapped around his kidney, and there was nothing we could do. We had lost Oskar, and now Steve. In the span of two and a half months, our lives had been irrevocably altered, and I felt this shift deep in my core, one that left me scared and searching for some sense of strength that I didn’t have. I screamed into a pillow one night, sobbing uncontrollably, devastated that my seven-year-old clown of a dog, my little Steve, was gone. It felt like everything was slipping away. Amos would be alone, and I was left grieving for a life that no longer existed.
On New Year’s Day of 2020, in an attempt to find some light in the darkness, I wrote down a list of resolutions. I was determined to make this year better, to heal, to find joy again. I convinced myself that the worst was behind us. But as we all know, 2020 had other plans. The world seemed to unravel at the seams, and I had no idea just how much more we would be tested.
For the most part, my husband and I are homebodies, so the quarantine restrictions didn’t faze us much. We huddled up in our cozy house, buying a projector to watch concerts by the fire. We followed Sammy Hagar and The Circle, eagerly anticipating each new release. We bought a new camper. We ate junk food, the kind that made everything seem a little more bearable. These were the fun parts of the 2020 shitshow. But we also avoided talking about how we were really feeling, how we were actually coping. Which, to be honest, wasn’t well at all.
Work became my refuge. I buried myself in it, trying to outrun the ache and the uncertainty that clung to every part of my life. Between 2020 and 2022, I climbed the ranks, becoming a Work Leader and eventually a Supervisor. But just when I thought I was steady, just when I thought I had some semblance of control, I was called into the office and notified that I was under investigation for creating a Hostile Work Environment. It was like a witch hunt, unjust, unfair, and status quo for the environment I was in. I was moved to a new department pending the outcome of the "investigation," and for the first time, I couldn’t hide my tears. Every day, I walked to my office with my head down, fighting the overwhelming weight of self-shame. I wore headphones to avoid looking at anyone. I didn’t want to be seen, and more than that, I didn’t want to feel.
Then, at the end of 2022, things started to change. I was hired in a new department, a better job, a brighter future. Or so I thought. A light flickered in the distance, but I couldn’t have been more naïve in believing that everything would just fall into place. The worst was still to come.
In January of 2023, I lost my Dad. Nine days before my birthday. Nothing can prepare you for that kind of loss. The finality. The silence. I buried my grief deep inside, terrified that if I let it all out, I would drown in it. But the truth is, I was already lost. I was already drowning. I shut myself off from everything and everyone. I went through the motions, waking up, going to work, coming home, making dinner, doing the bare minimum. Day after day, for over two years, I existed in a fog.
I was talking to someone at work when I learned that they had been promoted. A person who’d been doing their job for over two years. I thought they’d been there only three months. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks, time had slipped away. And for me, those two years had vanished, absorbed in a numbness I couldn’t explain.
I can honestly say that I don’t remember much of those two years. They feel like a blank space in time. The moments are fragments, small, disconnected pieces of a life I wasn’t really living. I didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to be around anyone. And then one day, I reached my breaking point. Enough. I wanted to feel something. I wanted kisses from Amos. I wanted to feel my husband’s arms around me. I wanted to be present again.
No one ever said life was easy. Whoever came up with that phrase, I can only imagine the waves of shit they had to eat to come to that conclusion. But you know what? It’s true. Life is hard. It has broken me in ways I didn’t think I’d survive. But it has also changed me, slowly, inch by inch. And I mourn the woman I used to be. She was funny, full of life. I miss her. But I’m also discovering the woman I’m becoming. It’s a slow journey, one that I’m still on, but I’m finding my way back.
And through it all, through every trial, I am forever grateful to the one man who stood by me. The man who loved me when I couldn’t love myself. The one who never let me go, even when I was sure I couldn’t hold on anymore. I thank you Geoff with all of my heart. You are my absolute everything.
