My dog died, and LinkedIn kept going

The morning after Daisy died, I did what I had been doing every morning for weeks. I picked up my phone and started doomscrolling LinkedIn.

Someone was celebrating a promotion.

Someone else had accepted a new job.

A recruiter was sharing interview tips.

Another recruiter was reminding me that success happens outside my comfort zone.

And there I was, sitting on the couch without my favorite coworker curled up beside me, trying to figure out how I was supposed to care about updating my resume when I could barely breathe.

My favorite coworker curled across my arm while I worked. We were each other's safe place. A year later, I'm still learning how to do life without her.

The strange thing about grief is that it doesn't stop the world around you. Everything kept moving. My bills kept arriving. Job alerts kept popping up. Social media kept refreshing a steady stream of promotions, work anniversaries and inspirational quotes as if nothing had happened.

Because for everyone else, nothing had.

AI-generated image

But in the words of Will Smith, my life got flipped, turned upside down.

And I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there.

I'll tell you how I somehow survived the last year.

The Pressures of Unemployment

Being unemployed already felt lonely before the grief of losing Daisy entered the picture.

Every morning, I would and still open LinkedIn with the best intentions. Maybe today would be the day I found the perfect job. Maybe today would be the day a recruiter reached out. Maybe today would be the day everything finally turned around.

Instead, day after day, I am greeted by more promotion announcements, new job celebrations and work anniversaries.

"I am thrilled to announce..."

"I am excited to share..."

"I am honored to accept..."

Meanwhile, I was over here trying to honor my commitment to brushing my teeth before noon.

Every scroll felt like proof that everyone else was moving forward while I was stuck. Not just stuck professionally, but emotionally. It felt like everyone around me were setting goals, climbing ladders and celebrating milestones. As for me, I was measuring success in much smaller increments: Did I eat today? Did I make it through the afternoon without crying? Did I shower today? Did I submit at least one application?

The advice I kept reading sounded simple enough: treat finding a job like a full-time job. Network. Upskill. Stay positive. Keep pushing forward.

But my life wasn't that simple. I was grieving the loss of my best friend, navigating the loss of a career, and desperately trying to hold together a version of myself I barely recognized anymore.

Some days, opening LinkedIn felt less like networking and more like showing up to a party where everyone was celebrating exciting new chapters while I was just trying to keep my life from becoming the next hit country song. All I was missing was a broken-down pickup truck and a cheating husband.

The Reality of Grief

I always thought grief was just an intense emotion of sadness. What I didn't expect was how physical it would feel.

My chest felt heavy. My thoughts felt slow. I was exhausted but couldn't sleep. I couldn't focus, couldn't remember simple things and often felt completely numb.

I was carrying more loss and uncertainty than my body knew what to do with, and it was responding the only way it knew how: by trying to survive.

Imagine writing cover letters while struggling with intense anxiety, impaired memory and the inability to focus.

My brain was constantly worried about the next crisis, and grief doesn't care about your shrinking bank account or the interview you have tomorrow.

For the first few months of unemployment, I beat myself up for not being more productive. Why couldn't I just push through? Why couldn't I focus? Why did every simple task feel so overwhelming? Why did I seem to care so little about things that once mattered?

Through a lot of therapy, I eventually learned it wasn't laziness or a lack of motivation. The dual grief of losing Daisy and my job triggered my nervous system into a fight-or-flight response. For the better part of a year, I lived in a state of survival mode.

While LinkedIn and well-meaning people around me were telling me to hustle, my therapist and my nervous system were begging me to rest.

What I Eventually Learned

What I eventually learned wasn't that grief gets easier. It's that productivity isn't the only measure of progress.

For most of my life, I measured success in accomplishments.

Projects completed.

Goals achieved.

Performance reviews.

Promotions.

Things you can put on a resume or humble-brag about on LinkedIn, but this last year forced me to redefine success entirely.

Some days, success looked like submitting a single job application. Some days, it looked like taking Penny for a walk or remembering to eat something other than Reese's Pieces straight from the Costco-sized container. Some days, it looked like showering before 4 p.m. And some days, success simply meant making it through another day without Daisy.

I'm not a therapist with a perfectly curated daily routine. I'm just someone who spent a year trying to function while grieving, unemployed and convinced my nervous system had permanently forgotten how to relax.

What helped wasn't some magical breakthrough. It was setting small, achievable goals and giving myself permission to count them.

In survival mode, the brain struggles to think months ahead. Sometimes I struggled to think past breakfast. So instead of focusing on the end goal of a job offer, I focused on updating my resume one section at a time. I set a 30-minute timer to limit the amount of time I spent job searching. On good days, I allowed myself more time. On bad days, I closed my laptop and took Penny for a walk.

Instead of creating long to-do lists that left me feeling defeated, I picked one or two things I could realistically accomplish that day.

I also learned that regulating my nervous system wasn't about eliminating grief. It was about sitting with my grief and reminding myself that I was safe.

Some days that meant journaling. Other days it meant watching Friends for hours, listening to music or calling a friend.

Sometimes it meant turning off social media completely. It turns out comparing your worst year to everyone else's highlight reel is not, in fact, a recommended coping strategy.

The biggest lesson was learning to celebrate my small wins. Not because they were small, but because to me, they weren't.

Getting out of bed when you're grieving is work.

Taking a shower when you're depressed is work.

Filling out a job application when you're carrying fear, uncertainty and loss is work.

There's no gold star for healing faster and no promotion waiting for me on the other side of grief. An entire year of unemployment has taken its toll on both my mental health and my bank account. At this point, I have written enough cover letters to qualify as a part-time novelist. I've bombed interviews. I've questioned my worth more times than I can count.

And some days, I still feel guilty that I should be doing more.

But now, on the bad days, I remind myself that I'm still doing the hardest thing I've ever had to do: learning how to live in a world that no longer includes my best friend.

And honestly, some days, that's enough.

The job will come.

The healing is taking longer.