Dear Mitch,
The photo I posted a couple weeks ago, made me smile when I first saw it—a beta reader with my memoir on her computer, her dog settled nearby, close enough to feel but not crowding the moment. It was tender and light in a way grief sometimes isn’t.
But it also stirred something deeper.
Because during my darkest days of grief, I had a dog you picked out before your cancer diagnosis, who never left my side.
We named him Leo.
Deep grief is quiet. Not peaceful, rather, quiet in a heavy, pressing way. The kind of quiet where the world keeps moving, but you feel suspended inside it. The days blur. Time loses its edges. Words don’t come easily, and when they do, they feel insufficient.
In those days, Leo followed me everywhere.
From room to room.
From bed to couch.
From morning into long, sleepless nights.
He didn’t demand anything from me. No urgency. No need to be entertained. He didn’t whine or paw or try to distract me from my sadness. He simply stayed close. Sometimes touching. Sometimes just near enough that I could feel his steady presence if I reached out. I realized later he during these times, he rarely went outside and ate less because he didn’t want to leave me alone.
I do believe Leo knew what I had lost because he felt the loss too. And he knew I was hurting.
There were days I cried until I felt hollowed out, as if everything essential had been scooped from my chest. Days when getting out of bed felt like too much. Days when the silence inside the house was louder than any noise ever had been. Leo stayed through all of it.
He didn’t try to fix my grief.
He didn’t rush me through it.
He didn’t need explanations.
And that, I’ve learned, is what grief needs most.
So many well-meaning people wanted to help by offering words—encouragement, perspective, hope. And while those things may have their place later, in my deep grief they often missed the mark. What hurt the most wasn’t the lack of answers. It was the aloneness, the knowing my life will never be the same.
Leo never left me alone in it.
He taught me something I now carry into my work as a grief educator: presence heals more than words ever can. Sitting beside someone in their pain—without trying to change it, soften it, or rush it—is one of the greatest acts of love there is.
Grief also reveals who stays.
Some people disappear, unsure of what to say or afraid of doing the wrong thing. Others surprise you with their steadiness. And sometimes, the ones who stay are quiet companions you didn’t even realize would become lifelines.
A dog.
A cat.
A person who doesn’t ask questions.
Someone who shows up and simply sits.
Those are the ones who help us survive.
Leo didn’t pull me out of grief. He didn’t make it lighter. But he anchored me to the world when everything inside me felt like it was unraveling. He reminded me—without words—that I was still here. Still breathing. Still worthy of care.
I hope if someone reading this letter is walking through grief right now, I hope they have—or find—someone who can stay with them without needing them to be okay. And if that someone has four legs and a quiet heart, I hope they know that counts too.
Love doesn’t always speak.
Sometimes, it stays.
