“Be strong. This is life. You’ll have to learn to fight.” “You can’t be so sensitive.” If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of statements like these, you know how hollow they can feel. I’ve heard them many times myself. Most days, I can brush them off. But there are moments in life when reality lands so heavily that no amount of mental preparation softens the blow. It’s one thing to anticipate something difficult and to have an inkling that a certain outcome might not go your way. It’s another when it actually happens, when it’s confirmed, spoken out loud, or placed right in front of you. That’s when it feels all too real. In this week’s blog, I want to say something simple but important: falling apart in those moments is not a sign of weakness. You’re allowed to lose your footing. You’re allowed to feel lost, shocked, or even hopeless for a while. Sometimes, you need that space before you can begin to make sense of what’s next.
One of the most jarring experiences of my life was undergoing fertility treatments. The first round failed. Then the second. The third felt the hardest and most invasive. I waited anxiously, hoping not to get my period. I stocked up on pregnancy tests. I followed every recommendation, took the supplements, and did everything I was told would improve my chances. Then, as the treatment progressed, I was told there were no healthy eggs to extract. The few that had matured wouldn’t have made it. That was it. I was devastated.
I remember sitting by the pool at home with a bottle of wine, crying, listening to music, and feeling everything at once: sadness, confusion, relief, and guilt. I didn’t understand why the procedure hadn’t worked. I was heartbroken that it hadn’t. At the same time, I felt relieved because I had begun questioning my relationship and whether bringing a child into it would be for the right reasons. Then came the guilt for even having that thought.
Knowing something might not work doesn’t make it hurt any less when it doesn’t. You still break. You still grieve. You still try to hold it together, sometimes in ways that aren’t ideal. And that’s okay.
Looking back now, I can say this with clarity: it’s one of the best things that happened to me. A part of me then, and all of me now, is not interested in having a child. At the time, I couldn’t see that. I forgive the version of me who believed it would solve everything. She did the best she could with what she knew.
That experience was many years ago. More recently, I noticed something changing with my senior dog, Coco, my soulmate. He was struggling to find his water bowl. Walks became frightening for him. I knew he was losing his eyesight, but the decline felt sudden and drastic.
I took him to the vet, partly hoping I was wrong. After examining him, the vet gently confirmed what I already knew: Coco has only 10–20% vision left. There was no reversing it. Hearing it out loud made it final.
Coco came into my life when he was two years old. I’ve known his mischievous side where he chewed wires, tore books, and jumped up and off the furniture. I’ve known his affectionate side where he’d climb onto the bed or couch just to be close to me. Now, he is fearful, confused, and trying to adjust to a world he can’t fully see.
The confirmation from his vet broke me. My first thought was that I was losing my baby. His blindness had already taken a toll on me, because it required both of us to adapt, individually and together. Lately, our walks have been slower. I talk to him constantly, so he knows I’m there. I am learning to be more patient and accept what’s inevitable.
As much as I didn’t want the truth confirmed, I needed to hear it. Regardless, we’ve surprised each other since that visit. We’re adapting more seamlessly. I’ve adjusted his walking routes. I’m also learning how to guide him without overwhelming him. I am discovering new ways to love, care for, and connect with him. It’s different now, but it’s still love.
I share this with you, because I want you to know that no matter how painful bad news feels in the moment, we have an incredible ability to adapt. We know how to push through and adjust even if we think we don’t. Our resilience is beyond measure, so don’t underestimate or doubt yourself for too long. You are far more capable and persevering than you know or believe.
Some unreal moments also bring forth immeasurable joy, but too much of that emotion can also feel destabilizing.
After two years of Covid, I finally saw my parents again. During that time apart, I had been through immense professional and personal challenges. Additionally, both my parents fell severely ill with Covid, one after the other, and I was miles away. I genuinely believed I might have to make an emergency trip for their last rites.
Thankfully, they survived; however, I aged by several years during that month.
When they finally arrived in August, I went to the airport to pick them up. Seeing them come down the escalator felt surreal. I almost lost my balance. I hugged them like my life depended on it.
That night, I barely slept. Every time I opened my eyes, I wondered if I had imagined their arrival. I was afraid that if I closed my eyes again, they’d disappear, and I wouldn’t know when I’d see them next. Through all that uncertainty and fear, I’d finally reunited with them.
It is in these moments that we realize what truly matters to us and what we will do to hold on to it. In the following months, life changed dramatically for me. They were supposed to stay for 2 months and ended up staying for 6 months, and those extra months significantly reshaped my life. The gratitude and sense of safety I experienced in their presence realigned me, grounded me, and taught me that joy and pain are both integral parts of being alive.
Maybe you’ve achieved an unbelievable milestone in life. Maybe you’ve found the love of your life. Maybe you’ve finally caught that lucky break. Maybe you’ve survived an impossible situation. No matter what or who is bringing you deep happiness, I hope in those moments you lean into forgiveness, compassion, and gratitude for enduring the journey to arrive at your destination. Without that journey, your destination wouldn’t feel the same.
Facing reality, even when you expect it, can be unsettling, but it can also be relevant and inspiring. It can teach you how much you can endure, adapt to, and grow from. It may knock you down temporarily, but that pause often becomes the space where resilience forms. You might doubt yourself at first. You might feel overwhelmed. But those feelings aren’t permanent.
Please know that you are far more magical than you give yourself credit for. Sometimes, life feels all too real. And when it does, you don’t need to be strong right away. You just need to be honest. Strength follows in its own time.
As always, I am here to support you all the way. I hope you keep in touch with your stories, thoughts, and feedback. If you wish to learn more, please stop by www.imperfectbodies.com. Lastly, if you enjoyed this information, then please share it with others.
My 5-minute guide for when you’re feeling overwhelmed, stuck, or lost. Reset your energy and reconnect with yourself. Bonus audio guide included. Available here: Energy Guide
All the best,
Chaitni
Your talking about Coco resonated with me and made me smile, even while it felt bittersweet for me. This article was published the day before my dog Rusty crossed the Rainbow Bridge and passed away. His passing was so fast, and because the day seemingly started as a morning like any other, I don’t think there was anything that could have done to have changed that it seemed to be his time. I was hysterical and devastated, and now, after spending much of the week in bed and in silence, I continue to go back and forth between numbness and grief, not caring about the future.
I adopted him when he was around a year old; he’d have been 12 this year, which is the expected lifespan for a beagle/basset hound. Rusty was my baby, my Valentine, my best friend, and I loved him more than life. He’d been by my side during some of my darkest moments. This was my first Valentine’s Day without my Rusty Valentine. I miss him so much. But even if I had gotten more time with him, it never would’ve been enough time. It never is, is it? I try to be grateful for the years I had to keep loving him after he had a melanoma tumor removed, because I could have lost him far sooner.
Like when you found out Coco’s vision wasn’t as good and you’ve been adapting for his needs and comfort, I did the same with him after he hurt a nerve in his neck several months ago. It started with a lot of me carrying him around; at first, he couldn’t even walk out of the house into the yard to relieve himself, so I had to carry him there. Then, he started being able to walk to the door and across the porch. He walked a bit further each time, only to get too tired to turn around, which meant I got to pick him up and walk back up the road, carrying him back inside. Over the course of a month, he walked more and more, and I carried him less and less, until he was back to being able to walk around the property with me like before and eventually around the neighborhood with me.
You’re doing a wonderful thing for Coco, adjusting to his needs, which have changed over time. It must be so hard to see him confused and afraid, but your compassion and understanding, your willingness to learn to love him in new and different ways…what a gift you’re giving him. Yes, things are different, but it’s still love.
More than once, my boyfriend has said to me that I’m too soft for this world, because of how emotional I can be, how much I care. What you said in your first paragraph resonated. And like you said, it’s one thing to anticipate something heavy…I’ve known that Rusty’s days would be coming to an end. I’ve lived with the anticipatory grief ever since that melanoma diagnosis. And like you said, “no amount of mental preparation softens the blow.”
All of this was to express my appreciation for what you wrote next: “falling apart in those moments is not a sign of weakness. You’re allowed to lose your footing. You’re allowed to feel lost, shocked, or even hopeless for a while.” That is the space where I am right now. I think I’m partly still in shock, dreaming about my Rusty, thinking about our routine at certain times of day before I remember and it hits me again. I feel lost, maybe even a little hopeless. I used to wonder what was next for me, since I just finished my bachelor’s degree in December, but now, that anxiety is gone. I don’t care anymore, it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters without Rusty.
Of course, that’s the grief talking, and I know this is temporary. I will adjust to his absence, as painful as it is, as much as I don’t want to adjust because I just want him here with me. I’ll find my footing and my bearings again. And it’s not true that I don’t care anymore, because I do care about my loved ones, including my cats. My kitties are sweet and offer comfort, humor, and snuggles while I grieve my dog. Thank you for saying that’s it’s ok to feel this way, that it’s ok to grieve, however it expresses itself. The loss hit me hard, as I always knew it would, but it just goes to show how deep my love was for him.
I’m glad that I spent so much time concentrating on being fully present with Rusty. While the cold winter wind blew and I just wanted to get back inside where it was warm, I’m glad that I was patient and let Rusty turn his face into the wind to smell all the things it carried that I couldn’t perceive. I’m glad that I let him take his time to snuffle the ground and sniff, and I’m glad that when he wanted to run, I ran with him (and he ran at my pace, since I’m the slowest runner ever, haha!). I would just recommend doing the same with Coco, with all your loved ones, and even just trying to slow down in general to be present and fully experience the moment in all its detailed splendor and vibrancy. Capture them in your memory, maybe journal about them so you can look back and remember. I plan to make a memory book full of stories about Rusty and our lives together so I can remember all those beautiful good times. I was looking for quotes for his urn, and a few stuck out while I was trying to find one. “Grief is the price we pay for love” (or something to that effect) and another that pretty much said that adopting a dog means knowing that there will be many very good days, and one very bad day. I’m doing my best to remember all the very good days, even the mundane, normal days, because that’s where beauty and joy are found.
Best wishes to you and yours, and Coco, too.
Hello Adrian,
It was wonderful receiving your message. My sincerest apologies for my delayed response; I only end up checking the messages every couple of weeks when I’m getting ready to post my next blog. Additionally, until now, I’ve only been spammed, so you can imagine my surprise and appreciation upon reading your note.
I am deeply sorry for your loss. You did everything you could, but, unfortunately, it was time. I can’t thank you enough for sharing your pain with me. It takes courage and vulnerability to allow someone else into your grief. If you are comfortable sharing, I’d love to see a few pictures of Rusty. I’m sure he was the bestest baby ever.
I understand what Rusty means to you. I always tell myself that Coco is my greatest love story. You’re absolutely right: an entire lifetime with our soulmates isn’t enough. I used to say that the day Coco goes, I go, and a part of me still believes that.
Rusty and you are beyond lucky to have found each other. He was such a trooper. From not being able to walk to regaining his strength and desire to explore again; what a fighter!
You might be soft for the world, but, trust me, the world needs more people like you. It’s the soft ones like yourself that tip the odds in the right direction and make the non-believers believe again in the goodness of humanity. We would be nowhere without your kind 🙂
The void that exists in your heart will never quite go away, but you will learn to live with it. In fact, you will learn to thrive again, but when you’re ready. There’s no rush. Rusty felt like everything to you and making room for anything else right now might feel impossible. That’ll change, and there will be more days where you look ahead than behind. Congratulations on your Bachelor’s. I wish you endless success and fulfillment in that journey of yours.
Thank you for reminding me to slow down with my loved ones, especially with Coco. I love your idea of journaling about them. I have the biggest smile on my face when I find notes I’ve written about Coco. The memory book you have planned for Rusty is a thoughtful idea and aids in the healing process as well.
Again, thank you for sharing such an integral part of your life. My one and only goal behind writing these blogs is to remind those who read them that they are not invisible, wrong, or behind. In fact, quite the opposite.
Take care of yourself even when you don’t feel like it. Rusty wouldn’t want it any other way.
My best,
Chaitni