Life can be a struggle. That is not a complaint, just an honest observation from someone who knows it firsthand.
For as long as I can remember, and I mean that almost literally, my default state has been a heavy one. I cannot pinpoint exactly when it started but by the time I was fourteen or fifteen years old it was already there, already familiar. Before that I was just a kid. Despite a difficult upbringing and things I witnessed growing up that no child should have to see, I somehow held onto something pure and innocent for a while. Then at some point that shifted, and the weight came with it.
That became my baseline. Not misery, but not ease either. Just this quiet ongoing heaviness that I have carried through life, managed around, and learned to live with.
Then me and my wife got Peppa.
She was a five pound Pomeranian and she was absolutely everything. We used to joke that she was our emotional support animal but the longer she was with us the less it felt like a joke. It was just the truth. She brought a kind of comfort and joy into our home that is genuinely hard to put into words. She was light. Real light. The kind that gets into the corners.
We lost her on September 3rd, 2025, and that was the hardest day of my life.
Losing Peppa broke something in me and it broke my wife too. We were devastated then and honestly we are still devastated now, almost six months later. And here is the thing people who have not carried that kind of baseline weight might not fully understand. When you already start from a place that is a little messed up, and then you lose the thing that made it more manageable, you do not just grieve. You grieve from a place that was already fragile. The loss lands differently. It goes deeper. It finds the places that were already cracked.
I live my life. I go to work. I go to the gym. I engage with people and most days I am okay. But I know myself well enough to know that I am always close to the edge. One small thing, the wrong song, a quiet moment, a random memory, and I am gone. Broken open all over again.
Last night I watched one of her videos.
When I saw her face I remembered all over again that she was here and now she is not. That I will never hold her again. Never feel her jump up and go to work on my face the way she always did. I used to call her the Peppa cleaning service because she would lick my face like it was her personal mission. I will never have that again. And sitting there watching that video I fell into one of the darkest places I have been since we lost her. Desperate, sobbing, completely broken, yearning for this tiny little dog who meant everything to us.
What pulled me back was my family. I went into the room, held my wife’s hand, put my head close to her, and just stayed there. I let her be my anchor. I thought about what I have here, what I would be taking away from the people I love if I ever let the darkness win, and I held onto that. I stay. I endure. I get back up. Not always for myself in those moments, but for them. Because I love them and I refuse to add to the pain in this world when I know exactly how much pain feels like.
Grief is not linear and it does not care about your timeline. Six months out and there are still nights that bring you completely to your knees. If you have ever loved a pet the way we loved Peppa, you already understand. And if you are going through something similar right now, just know you are not alone in it.
We keep going. We hold onto our anchors. And we remember them the best way we can.
Leave a Reply