I spend my days helping people name their pain.

I sit across from them—sometimes on a screen, sometimes in a quiet room—and I ask gentle questions. Where does it hurt? When did it start? What do you miss the most? I’ve learned the language of grief well. Or at least, I thought I had.

Then I lost my pet.

Not just a pet—but my baby, Daisy, a toy Poodle who took up more space in my heart than I ever imagined possible. She was so young—only three years old—and she died from a freak accident on her 3rd birthday itself, a detail that still feels unreal when I say it out loud. A day meant for celebration became the day everything changed.

Daisy was huggable, endlessly loving, and in every interaction all she ever showed was love and affection. She leaned into touch, sought closeness, and offered comfort without asking for anything in return. To the world, she may have been “just a dog.”
To me, she was routine, safety, and unconditional presence woven into the fabric of my life. She was the soft weight in my arms after long days holding other people’s pain. She was the quiet joy that didn’t ask me to be anything other than human.

When Daisy died, the loss was immediate and disorienting. I felt it in my chest before I could make sense of it in my mind. And what surprised me most was not the sadness—it was the guilt.

I’m a mental health provider, I told myself. I help people through grief every day. Why does this hurt so much? Why am I struggling to function?

That inner voice—the one so many of my patients know well—was harsh and unforgiving. It minimized my pain. It rushed my healing. It told me I should “know better.”

But grief doesn’t care what degrees you hold.

Loss is loss. And love is what makes it hurt.

Daisy’s death also unlocked something deeper—grief layered upon grief. Her sudden passing brought back a flood of memories from 2015, when my father died unexpectedly from a heart attack. The shock felt familiar. The disbelief. The way the world continued on while mine quietly fractured. I was reminded that grief does not move in straight lines; it resurfaces when we least expect it, asking again to be seen.

In the days that followed, I noticed myself doing what many of my patients do. I replayed Daisy’s final moments, especially the cruel irony of losing her on the very day meant to honor her life. I questioned whether I had done enough, watched closely enough, protected her better. I tried to intellectualize my way through something that needed to be felt.

And then, slowly, something shifted.

I let myself grieve the way I encourage others to grieve.

I allowed the tears without explaining them away.
I acknowledged that this relationship mattered—even if others couldn’t fully understand it.
I stopped ranking my pain against anyone else’s.

Daisy was not “just” anything. She was my baby. She was love in its simplest, purest form. She was a witness to my life—to my exhaustion, my joy, my quiet moments, my becoming. The fact that her life was short does not make it small.

Through losing Daisy—and remembering my father—I was reminded of something essential, something I now hold even more gently with my patients:

Grief is not a sign of weakness.
It is evidence of connection.

There is no timeline that makes sense for everyone. No “right” way to mourn. No threshold of loss that must be met for pain to be valid.

If you are grieving a pet, a person, a version of yourself, or a future you imagined—your grief counts.

You do not need to earn it.
You do not need to justify it.
You do not need to rush through it.

As a provider, I still help people carry their losses.
As a human, I now carry mine too—Daisy’s absence, my father’s memory, and the love that forever ties them to my heart.

And in that shared humanity, healing becomes less about fixing the pain—and more about allowing love to leave its mark.

If you are hurting, know this: you are not broken. You are grieving. And you do not have to do it alone. 🐾