Goodbye, Baba

Losing my dog broke me open, and reminded me what really matters

Today, I lost my dog.

Her name was Baba. She was a pure white Japanese Spitz — gentle, sweet, a little clingy in the best way. She was with us for 12 years. That’s a long time to love something, and a long time to be loved so completely in return.

I knew this day was coming. She had been slowing down. She’d stopped eating the way she used to, stopped bouncing to the door when I came home. She was never the same after her surgery, and we saw her decline.

See ended up succumbing to blood parasites, which are common here in the Philippines. And she was just too old to fight anymore.

But I wasn’t ready. You’re never really ready.

The house feels hollow without her.

There’s no soft paw tap on the floor. No snoring in the corner. No white blur at my feet reminding me that I’m not alone. She was my shadow, my quiet companion, the one thing that never judged me, never asked me to be anything more than what I was in the moment.

And now she’s gone.

Losing her feels like losing a child. Not in the way that compares pain: I know that’s a deeper, more unimaginable loss. But in the way that she was woven into the fabric of our family. In the way that she was constant. A fixture. A comfort. A presence.

I’ve cried more today than I have in years.

The Weight of It

What I wasn’t expecting was what came after the tears, the space.

There’s a terrifying kind of silence that follows death. A pause where the world keeps spinning, but you’re standing still.

That’s where I am right now. Staring into the silence, asking myself what I’ve been doing with my life.

I’m 56. I’ve already had one heart attack and one serious suicide attempt. I’ve danced close enough to death to know what it smells like. And yet I still find myself drifting through days, holding onto dreams with one hand while scrolling through distractions with the other.

But Baba’s passing cracked something open.

It reminded me that time is real. That the people — and animals — we love don’t last forever. That one day, the chance to say “I love you” or “I’m proud of you” or “I’m sorry” won’t be there.

I Want to Be Closer

I want to be closer to my kids in the U.S. I want to be more present for the children living with me now. I want to say the things that matter while I still can.

This loss made me feel everything I’ve been avoiding: regret, longing, urgency.

I don’t want to waste any more time being “almost” happy. “Almost” connected. “Almost” whole.

She Was There for All of It

Baba was there when I was broke. When I was depressed. When I thought I might not make it.

She was there when I got my college degree at 55. When I started writing again after years of silence. When I started building something that finally felt like mine.

She never cared about any of that. Not the goals, not the status. She just wanted to be near me. And honestly, sometimes I think that’s all we really want too — to be seen, to be safe, to be loved.

No More Time to Waste

I keep thinking: What if that was my last moment too? What if I never get to finish what I started? What if I die with all my best ideas stuck in my head?

I don’t want that. I can’t let that happen.

I’ve got stories to tell. Products to ship. Things to build that matter. Not because they’ll go viral or make me rich, but because they’re real. Because they’ll help someone. Because they’ll outlast me.

Baba’s life was simple, quiet, deeply loving. That’s the kind of legacy I want too. Maybe not loud, but lasting. Maybe not big, but honest.

What This Grief Is Teaching Me

It’s teaching me that grief is a mirror.

It shows you what you’ve been ignoring. It shows you what matters. It strips everything else away.

Right now, all I want is to love harder. To live fuller. To say the things that matter. To do the things I’ve put off until “someday.”

I don’t want to live waiting. I want to live building.

To Anyone Else Who’s Lost

If you’re grieving, I see you.

Whether it was a pet, a parent, a partner, a dream — you’re not alone in the ache.

Let it change you. Let it open you. Let it remind you what’s worth fighting for.

And if you’re lucky enough to still have your people, hold them tighter today. Say the thing. Make the call. Take the damn walk.

Baba, thank you for everything.

You were soft and stubborn and always underfoot. You were love in its purest form.

And I miss you so much already.

Rest well, sweet girl.

You were the best.