Sunday nearly broke me.

After days of vet visits, meds, and bandages, Sadie couldn’t walk. My strong, stubborn, loyal girl, the one constant in this sea of change, had gone completely still. She lay curled up, barely lifting her head, and I sat on the floor next to her, holding her paw and sobbing harder than I have in the past year.

For the first time, I thought I might have to take her Monday morning to say goodbye. The weight of that possibility crushed me. It cracked open everything else I’ve been holding back these past 7 weeks, the ache of losing Mr. S, the loneliness of starting over, the distance from the people who know me best. Grief has a cruel way of stacking itself, and Sunday, it buried me and the flood gates opened.

The Stroller and the Spark

By Friday night, it was clear Sadie couldn’t get outside on her own, so I got the stroller just so I could take her out for potty walks. At first, it broke my heart to see her like that, lying limp and quiet as I heaved her onto the stroller and wheeled her outside. My tough, sassy, hurricane-loving Florida girl had been reduced to fragile cargo, and the silence was unbearable.

But then came Monday morning. Driving back to the vet, swollen-eyed and running on caffeine and prayers, I noticed the tiniest shift: Sadie nudged my arm. It was so small, but it was something. By that afternoon, she finally sat up in the stroller for the first time in days, her head high and her eyes bright, like she was starting to take the world in again.

That tiny moment cracked open a little hope.

Monday Morning Light

At the vet, they connected me with a vet tech who could care for her while I led my two-day business meetings, a lifeline I didn’t even know I needed. Because while my heart was unraveling, life didn’t pause. My team was flying in. We were mapping out our business growth strategy for the next few years. I had to show up, lead, and hold it together when inside I felt anything but steady.

Coming Home

Two days later, I came home Wednesday bracing for the worst, and instead, I was met with grace.

Sadie walked to greet me. Slowly, carefully, but walking. She wagged her tail, her eyes sparkling with recognition and just a hint of sass, like she knew she’d put me through hell and wasn’t even sorry. I dropped to the floor and wrapped my arms around her, grateful for every shaky step and every stubborn breath.

And just like that, the stroller was retired. My “limo service” had officially been dismissed.

The relief was overwhelming, the kind that leaves you lighter and heavier all at once. Lighter because she’s okay. Heavier because moments like these remind you just how fragile, and fiercely loved, the things we hold closest are.

Meditation with the West

I don’t have an ocean view from my balcony. What I have are sunsets that set the whole sky on fire and lightning storms that make you stop mid-sentence just to watch. It is here on my balcony where I pause to breathe…my healing place.

This week, those skies felt like a mirror, heartbreak and hope colliding all at once. Some moments were blindingly dark. Others cracked wide open with light, reminding me that even the hardest storms pass, and the view on the other side can still take your breath away.

Healing looks like that. So does starting over. There’s no perfect timing, no pause button, no neat separation between the beautiful and the brutal. We carry them together.

So, I’m going into this weekend after an emotionally taxing week grateful… grateful for the strength I somehow found to get through it, and celebrating the gift I have in Sadie. And my new love for our potty walks… limo rides, loot bag, and all. 💜