Some weeks don’t gently ask if you’re okay, they just bulldoze through, leaving you standing in the wreckage, holding a bag of poop and a to-do list.

This was one of those.

Sadie re-injured her leg, and if you’ve ever tried to nurse a 70-pound, stubborn, rain-hating dog through pain, you know it’s part caretaking, part weight training, and part emotional hostage situation. We spent more time in vet waiting rooms this week than I’ve spent in my own living room. Three visits. Three rounds of colorful, expensive bandaging. She limps. I limp emotionally. We’re a pair.

Taking her out for potty breaks has become an Olympic event. She refuses to walk more than five reluctant steps, which means I’ve become a mobile poop bag carrier, without the convenience of a nearby disposal bin. So here’s the routine: she does her business, I bag it, we hobble back to the apartment (her with her limp, me with the loot), I drop her off… and then go back out just to find a trash can.

Here’s something I’ve learned: carrying a poop bag outside doesn’t usually smell that bad. But the second you step into a building with it? It announces itself like a fire alarm. There’s nothing like walking through your own hallway praying no one else gets in the elevator with you and your shame.

On top of that, we are nearing the point where pill pockets are becoming her primary food group. She looks at them like they’re filet mignon, while her actual meals are basically an afterthought. Pain management, but make it gourmet.

All of this was happening while work was a whirlwind: financial close, too many deadlines, and the kind of stress that has you answering emails in your sleep and forgetting what day it is by mid-Wednesday. Somewhere between spreadsheets and vet bills, I found myself emotionally sideswiped by the silence I still sit with when it comes to Mr. S.

The end of our relationship was unexpected and loud in its quietness. No closure. No conversation. Just… gone. And yet, my mind still reaches for him like muscle memory. I find myself internally whispering questions I’ll never get answers to. I pretend I’ve made peace with the not-knowing, but some days, I’m still negotiating with the truth.

But I haven’t broken. I haven’t stopped. I’ve cried in silence and then joined meetings like I was at a masquerade ball. I’ve hollered “no lick” more times than I can count, praying I remembered to hit mute first. I’ve laid awake wondering “why” and still woke up to do the hard things all over again.

And on the horizon? Light.

My kids are coming next week, proof that joy still shows up when you need it most. I’m holding out for their laughter, for hugs that refill what this week emptied. For the chance to forget about healing and heartbreak for a little while, and just be mom again.

So no, this week didn’t win.

It knocked me around, made me carry poop through the hallways like it was a handbag, tested my resilience, my heart, and my caffeine limits. But it didn’t break me.

With the cavalry arriving Sunday, I have sunshine days ahead even if it rains. There will be sand, golf swings, cards, and probably at least a few roller coasters I’ll agree to ride just to get some therapeutic screaming done.

Sadie may not be walking far, but I’m still moving forward. Limping a little, sure, but forward. And maybe that’s what keeps me going: not the promise of peace or answers, but the steady return of joy.