Grief has a way of reshaping the landscape of our lives. It doesn’t ask permission, and it doesn’t follow a schedule. When I lost W. and Teddy, my cats, to kidney disease the grief felt unmovable even though I knew “it” was coming. W. was 20 years old and Teddy was 19. They were and forever will be my boys. I lived decades of meows, everyday purring, endless biscuit cuddles, and the gift of looking into their deep blue eyes only to see souls of love, trust, and beauty. My daily rhythm was them. They were constant companions at my side. You can probably relate if you’ve ever loved a fur baby of any kind. They become family, don’t they?
What was beautiful for me, which I understand may be torturous for some, is that my form of “goodbye” (because it’s never truly goodbye) came in waves while they were alive, and I always held them close, but especially when caring for them as they grew more fragile. Isn’t that the beauty? To share what we need to while who or what we love is still with us? But it can also be part of the pain, right? To say a thousand goodbyes, knowing what you’ll miss?
A New Lens The reality for me is a new lens through which I now see grief. By no means am I an expert. I cried. I experienced detachment. I swung from happy to sad like a boomerang a million times all in one day. But I reminded myself, “No matter the kind of grief this is, I must go through it and not try to go around it.”It’s easier, isn’t it, to try to skip forward? To not feel? I knew though I wouldn’t just settle into a new life right away. Parts of me would be forever changed and parts of me would remain. And that was okay.
Rather than rushing through “getting back to normal,” I knew I’d have to define and form a new normal. There was no going back. And in moments like this, I wished I had my boys to comfort me.
So, during the gut-wrenching throes of grief, I decided to draw them digitally. I looked deeply at their picture, the way I always looked at them, and used watercolor as my medium. The tears came and went. Loud gasps, heavy breathing, tissues by the handful. Still, I kept on. Every stroke. Every whisker. Remembering the way they felt, their fur, paws, the pigment of their eyes—remembering it all. Moments of quietness came too. In between every heart-breaking cry and every reflective moment there was also closeness.
What did I learn?
Grief taught me that expression isn’t about fixing pain but about giving it a place to breathe.The grief had weight, but each stroke made it lighter. When words were too heavy, I drew. This form of expression could be taxing for some, but for me, it brought a tender closeness that gave me a new connection with them.
And so, grief became not just something I carried, but something I expressed—a way of keeping love alive in every line, every word, every memory.
My friend, if you’ve ever loved and lost, may you find your own form of expression—because grief, when given space, can become a bridge back to love.
