ein11eleven

Seven years.

And, I am now learning how to live in a home where you are no longer here.

I don’t know how to write about losing you without writing about the guilt.

Because that’s the part that hurts almost as much as missing you.

I keep thinking about the things I should have done differently.

I wish I had taken your condition more seriously.

I wish I hadn’t missed your follow-up checkup.

I wish I had understood sooner that something was wrong.

I wish I had taken you back to the vet earlier.

There are so many I wishes.

And perhaps that’s what grief does.

It takes everything that happened and makes you believe you could have changed the ending if only you had noticed one thing sooner.

But the truth is, by the time we came back to the vet, it was already too late.

Your health was declining.

And you were suffering.

That is the part I struggle to accept.

Because when I think of you, I don’t want to remember the last days.

I want to remember you.

I want to remember how much I loved cuddling you.

How I would hold you close, sometimes simply because I needed to feel you there.

You were there during some of my worst and most needy moments.

When I was overwhelmed.

When I was sad.

When I needed comfort.

When I didn’t feel like talking to anyone.

You never asked me to explain myself.

You never judged me.

You just stayed.

Sometimes all I needed was to hold you, feel you beside me, and somehow things felt a little less heavy.

I don’t think you ever knew how much comfort you gave me.

You weren’t just my dog.

You were one of my safe places.

And that’s what I miss so much.

I miss being able to cuddle you.

I miss knowing you were there.

I miss those ordinary moments that I never thought would become memories.

And now, when I need that comfort, you’re not there.

That emptiness is difficult to explain.

But my mind keeps taking me back to the moment you took your last breath.

That moment has stayed with me.

Sometimes it comes back when everything is quiet.

Sometimes at night, when everyone else is asleep and my mind won’t stop.

I see you again.

I remember your last breath.

And I wish I could somehow go back and change it.

I wish I could take away whatever pain you felt.

I wish I could have protected you from all of it.

I’m sorry, Hailey Mama.

I’m sorry for the things I missed.

I’m sorry I didn’t understand sooner.

I’m sorry I didn’t take you back for that follow-up.

I carry those regrets because I loved you.

But I’m beginning to understand something.

Guilt is not the same thing as love.

And punishing myself forever won’t change what happened.

It won’t bring you back.

It won’t erase your suffering.

And it won’t honor the seven years of love we shared.

So I’m trying to let myself remember the whole story—not just the ending.

You were here for seven years.

Seven years of being loved.

Seven years of being part of our family.

Seven years of cuddles, comfort, ordinary days, little moments, and that incredibly sweet personality that was so completely yours.

Your life was more than your last day.

You were more than your last breath.

And I need to remember that.

I don’t know when the memory of losing you will stop hurting this much.

Maybe it won’t completely.

Maybe that’s okay.

Because grief is love that suddenly has nowhere to go.

So I’ll let myself miss you.

I’ll let myself cry.

I’ll say your name.

I’ll remember you.

And slowly, I hope I can replace the memory of your last breath with all the breaths that came before it.

The happy ones.

The peaceful ones.

The ordinary ones.

The ones I didn’t know I would one day desperately wish I could have back.

Thank you for seven beautiful years, Hailey Mama.

Thank you for letting me cuddle you.

Thank you for being my comfort when I needed it most.

Thank you for being there during the moments when I wasn’t okay.

I’m sorry I couldn’t change how your story ended.

But I hope, wherever you are, you know how deeply you were loved.

And when I finally learn to forgive myself, I hope you know that too.

You were never a mistake I made.

You were a gift I was lucky enough to have for seven beautiful years.

And I will always love you.

Run free, my sweet Hailey Mama. 🐾