Wait, am I overreacting?

The question I can't shake after losing my dog.

My dog died on Saturday. I’ve played with euphemisms (she passed away!) but have settled on plain language. We watched her die, and it wasn’t the restful end you see in movies. While at dinner with our kids, I made a mental note to make a grooming appointment for the following week. Not even an hour later, she was gone. 

I’ve vacillated between emotions, unsure where to settle. On Saturday, I sobbed so much I couldn’t speak. I didn’t sleep that night, dreading telling my daughter and bracing myself for her reaction, which was even worse than I’d anticipated. A heaviness settled on me this weekend and hasn’t entirely left. I don’t know when I’ll feel better. In between crying when people post about healthy pets and scrolling through pictures of Luna, my ever-so-silly dog whose tongue stuck out constantly, I’ve made time to beat myself up for how I’m feeling. 

No matter how busy I am, there’s always room for self-condemnation.

I am hit with an unexpected but all too familiar thought amid my sadness. What if I’m blowing this out of proportion? What if she’d been younger? Or I’d had her longer? Or she’d died in an even more traumatic way? I loved her fiercely, but didn’t other people have it worse? I shift my pain to make room for a familiar emotion: shame. Grieve her, sure. But do you have to make such a scene about it?

This isn’t the only time I’ve reached this conclusion.

***

My husband and I sit in traffic as I work up the courage to ask a question that’s been sitting on me for months. “Hey,” I start. “Do you ever feel like we…overreacted to my miscarriage?” He takes a long, sideways look at me. “No, I don’t. Do you?”

I shrug and change the subject, feeling silly for even bringing it up. But I can’t shake the feeling that’s haunted me for years. In 2019, I lost a wanted pregnancy to a rare condition. The sorrow knocked me over, and I wasn’t sure how to get up — or that I even wanted to. I stashed baby clothes away where I wouldn’t see them and unsuccessfully tried to force myself out of bed. I coped by talking about it — on social media, in face-to-face conversations, for publications and podcasts. At the time, it was a way to feel less alone. But years later, I struggle with my decisions. I could’ve been further along. It could’ve been infant loss. Don’t people lose babies all the time? These inquiries played like a loop in my head. My openness embarrassed me. Why not process privately? It wouldn’t have killed me to keep some details to myself. My anguish felt justified then, but it was a bit much, right?

This is a pretty messed up coping mechanism. When terrible things happen out of my control, I turn to what I can influence: how my emotions manifest. People are probably not looking at someone whose dog just died and side-eyeing their misery. But I’m not sure this is even about other people's thoughts. You know what they say about being your own worst critic. 

***

As I wrestle with all my feelings this week, I'm forced to confront the truth about why I act this way. I wouldn't ever judge someone in my shoes for their reaction, even if they felt it was overwrought. I posted my thoughts on Instagram and received hundreds of messages assuring me I wasn't overdoing it. People responded with an extraordinary level of vulnerability, sharing how they responded when their dogs died. A friend texted me that she cried every day for three months after losing her family dog. These stories comfort me, but there's still an internal bullying voice that wants to punish me for not moving on quickly. No one can be meaner to me than myself.

Am I really punishing myself because I believe I’m showing a disproportionate level of grief, or is this an extension of the same, tired reason for which I regularly blame myself? I am often loud, and it has caused problems before. Not everyone is okay with me showing up as my full self. I fear I’m too much for the people who love me. As much as I hate it about myself, I also worry that strangers may find me obnoxious.

Grief rubs you raw. It’s the most naked you can get. It’s not a surprise that the devil on my shoulder waits till I’m at my worst to tear me down. I haven’t made a counseling appointment since Luna’s death because I feel silly going to therapy over this. It doesn’t matter that she wasn’t just a dog, that she saw me through the worst times of my life, that I have to help my 4-year-old process her emotions when I can’t even figure out mine. I can’t bring myself to make the call.

You've probably been here, too. Maybe not with a dog, but with anything terrible — the not-so-subtle worry that you might feel things a bit too deeply, or cry too much, or feel stuck longer than you should. I often look around the proverbial room and wonder how someone else may handle my struggle. They might take the loss of a dog in stride. Honestly, though — who cares? Let's say I am overreacting and dramatic and making things about myself and all the things I fear. 1) I'm not. (This only matters to me sometimes.) 2. I can't change my natural reaction, so why not just…allow it? Either way, I'm going to feel terrible. Might as well pick the version where I'm not constantly chastening myself.

I have few New Year's resolutions for 2025, but if I had to come up with another one on the spot, it'd be to be nicer to myself. Easier said than done, but what I've got going on clearly isn't working. To loudness and big feelings and not holding back the tears. We deserve it. 

To the sweetest girl.