Lately, I’ve been thinking about Macy.
Ever since we lost Molly, something in her shifted.
And if I’m honest, something in me did too.
I never thought she was being needy.
I knew she was grieving.
I was grieving too.
Losing Molly was the hardest loss I’ve ever
felt with a dog.
I loved Murphy dearly, and losing him was
painful — but not like this.
Not like this.
The day Molly died, Macy walked in their crate.
She thought Molly was coming too.
Instead, I carried Molly out the door, and hours later I came home with .. goodbye.
I brought Molly back so Macy could see her
one last time.
I still believe that mattered.
But I also think something in her little heart
became afraid of losing what she loved again.
After that, she started following me everywhere.
If I stood up, she cried.
If I sat down to eat, she trembled.
If I took a shower, she sat on the bathroom
mat, whimpering and waiting for me.
So I did what love does.
I reassured her.
I stayed close.
I fed her where she felt safe.
I tried to help her feel steady again.
And slowly, we found a rhythm.
She still sleeps beside me.
We created a little place for her — a chair with
her cushion and blankets, level with my bed.
All I have to do is stretch out my arm, and I
can touch her.
It works for us.
She loves routine.
So do I.
Out here in the mountains, we’ve learned to
keep our days gentle and familiar.
And lately, I’ve started to notice something
quietly beautiful.
The other day, I walked clear to the other
end of the house to do laundry.
For the first time in a long while, Macy didn’t
follow me.
I peeked down the hallway.
She was laying peacefully on the couch.
And today, when she stood by her food bowl
and cried, I didn’t bring it to her.
I simply said, “Macy, if you’re hungry, eat.”
And she did.
Standing there watching her, I realized
something.
She isn’t broken.
She’s healing.
Grief, I’ve learned, is an ocean of its own.
It comes in waves—sometimes gentle,
sometimes overwhelming—
the way the ocean moves, even when it
looks calm from the shore.
Some days, the waves roll in hard and heavy.
Other days, the water is so calm you can
almost see the horizon clearly —
that place where the water meets the sky,
where it’s hard to tell where one ends
and the other begins.
When the waves come, they hurt.
But when they roll back out, they carry a
little of the weight with them.
That’s what grief has been like for us.
Some days are still hard.
But more and more, there are quiet days too.
Out here at Elk River, I’m learning that healing doesn’t happen all at once.
It happens the way rivers move — slowly,
steadily, and with grace.
And in the quiet of these mountains,
both of us are learning that love can remain…
even when the waves rise and fall.
🤍
— 𝐸𝑙𝑘 𝑅𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑅𝑒𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠, 𝐶𝑦𝑛𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑎 𝑆𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑖
