Should you get another dog? Or is it too soon?

There’s no right answer to this question. But there are some honest things worth saying that you might not hear elsewhere.

There's a particular kind of disorientation that happens when you walk into your parents' home as a fully functioning adult and within twenty minutes feel like you're twelve again.

If you've been researching therapy for trauma, grief, or anxiety, you've probably come across Internal Family Systems, or IFS. If you've wondered whether there's something that goes just as deep without feeling like you have to go to war with yourself, this is worth reading.

It's 2am.

You wake up suddenly. Heart racing. Sheets damp with sweat. You kick the blankets off hoping the cool air helps.

Your mind is already moving.

Thoughts start circling. Irritation. Worry. A restlessness you can't quite name.

You still share a home.

You still share a life. Meals. The rhythms of daily existence.

But the person sitting across from you isn't the person you married. Illness or injury changed that. And the relationship you had disappeared even though they're still right there.

You've tried to figure it out. You've analyzed it, talked about it, read about it, and reasoned with yourself more times than you can count. You know your patterns. You might even know where they came from. And you still can't seem to move.

At first glance, your life may look pretty good. And yet there are nights when the house is quiet and a question keeps returning:

Why do I feel so lonely in my marriage?

Relationships aren't supposed to feel this confusing.

You may have spent time thinking about what went wrong in the past. Maybe you've read books, reflected on past partners, or even gone to therapy to understand your patterns.

And yet relationships still feel harder than they should.

All grievers ask some version of the same question:

“How long will this last?”
“Will I always feel this bad?”

What I didn’t understand then is that grief changes.

There is a long stretch of adulthood devoted to building.

Building a career.
Building stability.
Building relationships and something that feels secure.

For some women, that includes raising children. For others, it may mean caring for aging parents, building a business, investing deeply in a partnership, or showing up every day for those who depend on you.

You’re good at handling things.

You’ve built a solid life. You show up. You follow through. You’re competent in rooms where other people unravel.

Connection shouldn’t be the thing that trips you up.

And yet… here you are.

As a therapist, I often witness the intricate dance of relationships—how they support us, stretch us, and sometimes, how they hurt us. It’s a quiet kind of grief. One that often gets minimized or overlooked, even though it cuts just as deep.

Whenever I lose a dog, I’m struck by two things at once: the sharp ache of grief and the quiet waves of absence that follow. The routines, the silent understanding, and the unique personality that filled the house with life are missing now.

Some anniversaries leave an imprint that time doesn’t erase. The day associated with a loss can stir heaviness, anxiety, or a sense of restlessness, often catching people off guard.

The weeks following a break can be surprisingly tender. We return to our routines with intentions, hopes, and quiet expectations — only to find that plans shift, energy runs out, or something we were looking forward to doesn’t happen after all.

The turn of a new year often arrives carrying a familiar message:
Start fresh. Do better. Fix what didn’t work. Grief and anxiety often intensify at the beginning of a new year, particularly for those who have experienced loss or prolonged stress.

A therapist’s reflection on grief, survival, and the slow turn toward self-compassion

For much of my life, I did what I had been shaped to do. I worked hard. So when life became unimaginably painful after the tragic deaths of my son and my mother, I relied on the strategy that had always helped me survive. I worked harder.

That strategy wasn’t wrong. It was the way my system protected me.

The holidays often arrive carrying two truths at once: the hope for connection, and the weight of expectations that rarely unfold as planned. For many people, this season brings increased emotional demand, relational strain, anxiety, and nervous system fatigue.

The holidays arrive with lights in windows, familiar songs, and gatherings meant to signal joy. For many parents grieving a child, however, this season carries a very different rhythm—one shaped by absence, ache, and quiet remembering.

If you're heading into the holidays after a recent loss, you're not alone—and you're not doing it wrong if you have days where it feels impossible. This post offers gentle suggestions to help you navigate the next few weeks with a little more space and self-compassion.