Day one of grief is a raw and unimaginable pain. I think when we experience physical pain, it’s easier for our brain to understand and make the connection – I got hurt and now I’m in pain.

But when someone dies, it’s so surreal that our brain doesn’t easily process it. It’s so painful in fact, that, “is this level of hurt normal?”, and “how will I ever live through this?”, are two very common questions your brain plays on repeat.

Though I’ve grieved before, it doesn’t mean I have immunity to the shock and all the emotions that grief brings along with it. Each time is like experiencing it for the first time, with a touch of déjà vu. There are a few things that I’ve recognized as being such significant and strange (for lack of a better word) parts of early grief.

The mundane things are bizarre.

I was walking through the grocery store the day after we said farewell to our sweet pup and was struck by just how strikingly weird it all felt. Everyone around me is just doing one of the most basic tasks of life, planning on what to eat and feed their family. I look the same as I did last week so on the outside no one can see my screams or how my life has just completely changed.

No one can tell that this week’s me won’t be last week’s me ever again. Like my fellow shoppers, I need food too, but my basket has some haphazard stuff with no plans or care put into it. It’s remarkably clear that the Earth is still spinning even though my world has come to a complete halt.

When the Amazon driver comes to the door and snaps the delivery photo, does he realize that there is one less bark from the other side of the door? Are the harmonies of everyone’s bark different to others or just us? Surely he has no idea and it’s painfully obvious that everyone else’s normal has remained the same and ours is completely out the window. 

If only Amazon sold “new normal”.

There are so many micro losses that I can’t keep up.

Our family has changed and making sense of that and absorbing it is going to take time. But time is not the kindest because every single day is filled with these little micro losses that make the major loss cut even deeper.

I found a tuft of fur that was clearly from my dog who is no longer physically here. It wasn’t like a tumbleweed of fur that had not been vacuumed, this was like a perfect little curl of his fur. Not sure where it came from but I am sure there won’t be more and that takes my breath away.

There is food in the fridge that is evidence of all the things I’d been trying to entice him with for the last few days. His favorite toy is left right where he last dropped it. The alarm on my phone reminds me it’s time for his medicine. The TV suggests the YouTube video that I’d leave on when we went out. A random crumb falls on the floor and he’s not rushing to get it. The warm sunspot on the dog bed at 1:30 is going to waste with no one lying in it.

Micro losses feel like another loss over and over and over.

People are kind but also kind of dumb when it comes to grief.

We all know society is far from being good at grief but, with pet loss, many people just don’t get it. I work in the pet loss field and someone still said to me, two weeks into my grief, “so you getting another one?”. *Insert emotionless emoji face*

Just assume that someone is going to say something dismissive, rude, or ridiculous to you. Not out of malice, but because grief is uncomfortable for them. People try to silver-line grief or want to be the hero of our story by saying something that will magically help.

To be less likely to be caught off guard, like I was, consider having a planned one-liner reply to shut them down. “I know you think you’re helping, but you’re not”, or something similar would probably do the trick. What are some of the things you might you may hear or even read throughout this journey?

• Well, you knew they wouldn’t live forever
• Go adopt! There are so many that need homes.
• They’re in a better place now.
• Are you seriously this upset over a pet?
• How long are you gonna be sad?
• They wouldn’t want you to be miserable.
• You can actually go out and do stuff now and not have to be home taking care of them.
• Think of all the extra money you’ll have now.
• I think you must have more going on then just this.

Sadly this is not an exhaustive list, but it gives you an idea of how people don’t think and really don’t understand.

Pro Tip: Find your grief people. There are people in the world that DO get it. Seek them out and find community and support in sharing what you’re going through with them. It truly helps to know you’re not alone.

There is literally physical pain.

Grief, especially in the beginning, can feel like someone physically punched you in the heart. Hard. Nevermind the sore muscles from crying and the dehydration, it’s the actual physical pain in your chest, which can be shocking at times.

It’s probably one of those things that can’t be understood or described well unless you’ve experienced it. Which, if you’re reading this, you probably have. For that, I’m so sorry. I think it’s good to know it’s normal though. The physical pain can be so off putting that it’s hard not to wonder if you’ll actually be able to live through it.

You will. You will live through this. They don’t call it a journey for no reason though.

It’s going to feel worse before it feels better.

Numbness is a bit of a hallmark at the beginning of grief. It’s how our brains and bodies protect us and get us through each day. Thank goodness for auto-pilot doing its job. But what also happens is that numbness wears off.

The time it takes is likely different for everyone but often at three weeks or a month, grief suddenly can feel like the worst it’s been. Numb is waning and pain remains. Meanwhile, everyone around has gone back to “normal”. Enter the glaring spotlight that only you can see; “Hey! I’m still not normal and feel like I never will be again!”.

The work of figuring out how to live in a changed world is about to ensue. That’s the journey part. The part that no one can predict or tell you how long it’ll be. A trip you didn’t want or ask for, yet here it is.

And grief time is weird. A vortex where day feels like a week but then a month feels like it was just yesterday. It’s all very odd and hard to wrap your mind around.

Now would be a good time to dig deep for some self compassion and grace. Easier said than done, I know. There is no manual for this part. In fact, you have to write your own. But there is also no deadline, no editor, no mistakes in your manual.

I think the only thing that anyone can be promised in grief is that no feeling truly lasts forever and grief will change. It’s reassuring to know that while grief is weird, it’s all normal. The early phase of absorbing that this is actually happening can literally make you want to vomit.

Just survive for now. Get on that proverbial liferaft, breathe and stay afloat. It’s ok if you don’t know what tomorrow looks like. You’ll figure it out, I promise.