Loss is loud

The Ache of Anticipatory Grief

Loss is loud.

We wake up to quiet, waiting for the sounds that never come.

We sit in the living room and the absence of noise screams at us.

I know what the silence feels like after a dog is gone.

I said goodbye on a Wednesday in Spokane. My future husband and I drove back to Kelowna, British Columbia, a few days later because unemployment benefits don’t care about heartbreak.

And I sat on my couch while my fiance slept in the next room. Everything about my apartment felt wrong.

No tick-tick-tick of nails on laminate flooring.

No metallic clang of collar against bowl.

No BOOF at the postman whose only crime was existing.

I kept waiting for Shep to come around the corner.

He never did.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was awful. Violent.

When you’ve already lived through the After

When you’ve already known that kind of quiet, something shifts.

Bella is still here.

Being her gorgeous self.

Breathing.

Grumping and harumphing.

Side-eyeing the world like she personally filed a complaint with management.

And sometimes – this is the part I don’t always say out loud – I hear the future silence.

What does life sound like without her “THIS IS ABOUT ME” bark?

Without the “UPS IS HERE AND I OBJECT” bark?

Without the unhinged “OMG CAT. THERE’S A CAT AND THIS IS A FIVE-ALARM SITUATION” bark?

That soundtrack is woven into my mental playlist.

The fear isn’t only losing her body.

It’s losing the noise.

The sound of anticipatory grief

This is anticipatory grief.

Not dramatic. Not morbid. Just honest.

When we know time is finite, we start noticing the soundtrack of our lives together.

We realize how much of our days are punctuated by them. The pacing. The sigh. The collar shake. The bark that startles us even though we’ve heard it a thousand times.

And if you’ve lived through the After before, your body remembers the silence waiting on the other side.

That memory makes the present sharper.

Sometimes sweeter.

Sometimes terrifying.

One small thing you can do right now

Record the bark.

Not a curated video. Not a “perfect” moment.

Open your phone and capture just seconds of the chaos. The UPS alert. The cat emergency. The deeply unnecessary commentary on a leaf blowing across the yard.

This “excuse me, ma’am, it’s time for my dinner.”

Save it.

Name the file.

Back it up somewhere safe.

One day, when the house feels too still, you can press play.

Not to reopen the wound. Not to live in the past.

But to let the sound cut through the quiet and remind you that it was real. That it filled your walls once. That you got to live inside that ridiculous, sacred soundtrack.

Let the bark interrupt you

The silence after loss is awful. I know that.

But while she’s here, I get to listen.

I get to let the bark interrupt my thoughts. Interrupt my writing. Interrupt my so-called productivity.

One day, the house will be quiet.

I don’t want to spend these years wishing it would be.

So when she erupts at UPS like it’s a personal betrayal, I let her.

Because that noise?

That noise is love.

And I am still lucky enough to hear it.

Pet photographers: If you want to approach end-of-life sessions with more confidence, more clarity and deeper compassion, Through the Lens of Goodbye walks you through the mindset, messaging and in-session skills that matter most. It’s available now in Kindle and paperback, ready to support the work you’re called to do.