Surviving My First Year Without Daisy

I Thought I Would Have More Figured Out By Now

Today marks one year since Daisy died.

A year sounds like a long time. Long enough that people assume the grief has softened. Long enough that you're supposed to have found your footing again.

It isn't.

A year ago, I couldn't imagine surviving a year without Daisy.

The last year asked more of me than I thought I had to give. I was grieving Daisy while navigating unemployment, uncertainty, and the challenge of rebuilding a life I barely recognized.

I thought I would have more figured out by now.

I thought grief would be easier to carry.

I thought I'd stop looking for her out of habit.

I thought loving Penny would make losing Daisy hurt less.

I thought I'd have a new job by now.

I thought life would look more like the one I had lost.

I thought I'd know what came next.

I thought I'd stop crying every day.

I thought I'd stop feeling guilty.

I thought I'd eventually stop talking about her.

I thought I'd stop measuring time in "before Daisy" and "after Daisy."

I was wrong.

Some things have changed.

Most things haven't.

The tears aren't as constant as they were in those first few months, but they still show up.

I still look for her every time I come home.

I still reach for her beside me at night before remembering she's not there.

I still tell Daisy stories to anyone willing to listen.

And I still miss her every single day.

What I didn't expect was that grief would become less about surviving the loss and more about learning how to carry my love for Daisy into a life she is no longer here to share.

The truth is, I don't have some profound lesson to offer on the one-year anniversary of losing her.

I haven't found closure.

I haven't stopped missing her.

I haven't reached a point where talking about her doesn't make my eyes fill with tears.

There are still days when the grief feels impossibly heavy.

There are still mornings when I wake up and, for a split second, forget she's gone.

I still miss her deep bark scolding me every time I come home.

I still miss the sound of her nails on the floor.

I still miss the way she curled up against me or under my laptop while I worked.

I still miss being Daisy's mom.

But there are things that have changed.

A year ago, I couldn't talk about Daisy without immediately falling apart.

Now I can tell stories about her and sometimes laugh before I cry.

A year ago, every memory felt like a reminder of what I had lost.

Now those memories feel like gifts. They still bring me to my knees sometimes, sobbing on the floor, but I no longer wish them away.

A year ago, I was terrified that moving forward meant leaving her behind.

A year later, I'm still trying to figure this out.

I'm still learning how to carry my love for her without carrying quite so much guilt.

I'm still learning how to build a life that doesn't include Daisy while keeping her at the center of so many parts of my heart.

It's a work in progress. I'm a work in progress.

Daisy is woven into who I am.

She shows up in the stories I tell.

She shows up in 4,500 photos on my phone.

She shows up in the way I love Penny.

She shows up in the way I notice older dogs and the people caring for them.

She shows up in a hundred small moments that most people would never notice.

A year ago, I couldn't imagine surviving a year without Daisy.

Today, I can tell you that I did survive it.

Not gracefully.

Not perfectly.

Some days I barely managed it.

But I survived.

And I loved her through every one of those 365 days.

I suspect I'll love her through the next 365 too.

Maybe that's what grief is.

Love with nowhere to go except forward.

The double rainbow that followed me home 10 miles a week after Daisy passed. It disappeared shortly after I captured this picture from our deck. I know it was her letting me know she is OK. I will miss her forever, but I know she will be waiting for me at the Rainbow Bridge someday. Until then, I know she is running and playing with Sonny, Sassy and Sprinkles.