On September 26, 2026, I said goodbye to my best friend—my senior dog, Styles.

One of the first things I said about Styles’ passing was that he wasn’t just a dog. I know that’s cliché, but for Styles, it’s true. He wasn’t just a dog. He was the rhythm to my mornings. He was the cadence of my everyday walks. He was the tender face that listened when I cried, and the nose that nestled its way into my armpit during every snuggle session, effortlessly making me laugh.

He was the furry body I curled up against for almost a decade—on the couch watching movies, side-by-side on his dog bed when I needed a break from work, or tucked in blankets between my husband and I—and eventually, his paws wedged under me in a pattern that was equally comforting and endearing, night after night, keeping me warm as I went through the thick of divorce.

Styles was the slow, whiny nose-whistle that echoed in the early morning darkness as I prepped for my school day. He was the grunts and groans when I nudged his body a little to the side to make room for me in the bed. He was pitter-patter feet and nails dragging across the vinyl flooring to follow me from room to room. Or the little two-inch jumps with his front paws to greet me at the front door, followed by the high-pitched whines that were the soundtrack of my home life.

At fourteen-and-a-half years old, Styles lived a good life. And so much of that was by my side: coffee shops and Saturday morning book readings, adoption events and photoshoots, family portraits that littered my walls, and then photos with my teenager as he headed into his senior year.

Styles’ steady presence was there, documenting each turn and twist.

So, saying goodbye to him doesn’t just feel like saying goodbye to a dog. And not even saying goodbye to a friend or family member, either. Watching him take his last breath feels like closing the door on a part of myself, on a part of my life, on a story I can only see in my rearview.

And yet, his presence is with me every day. I feel him when I snuggle with my younger dog, when I stop to smell the fresh breeze, when I look back on pictures and videos of my business and brand and realize how much of those dreams he was a part of. I feel him in the laughter I share with my bonus son, and in the way we somehow find strength to move forward even in absence.

People chuckle in their lighthearted ways, saying, “He’s just a dog, you’ll be fine.” And I know I will. I know the grief won’t sit this heavy in my chest forever. But there’s something specifically difficult about saying goodbye to a pet.

Perhaps it’s because our pets exist in the bridge between human and animal—between child and companion—a part of your family, despite not being your flesh and blood.

And for me, a mother in a household that doesn’t consist of biology at all, losing Styles feels like losing another part of the family I built and have learned to slowly let go of. A reminder, as my teenager takes steps each day towards adulthood, that I will have to create a new definition of family all over again.

But, there are beautiful things alongside the grief, too.

Styles’ passing has taught me to show up more fully, more freely. Rather than waiting for the ‘perfect’ moments — to share the video, to write the story, to spend the afternoon at the park — I recognize that the most perfect moment is now.

So, as I learn to slow down and relish life, and as I learn to appreciate the moments I have right now with my younger dog and my son, I also dance between the patience life is calling me into and the urgency to grab all that I can before it slips away.

Grief teaches us that. It teaches us to skirt between the quickness and the gentleness, the rush and the deep breaths. I live my days now in a mix — an active reminder of my senior dog who moved slowly, yet would run across the yard to chase a sound. Who would nap any chance he got but also bark wildly at an unfamiliar doorbell ring.

Even in his passing, and perhaps in honor of it, I am now keenly aware that life is about contrast, about not being afraid to live and love — slowly, urgently, patiently, and fiercely.

That is the grief I carry and the legacy of him that lives on, long after he’s gone.