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Four Things Loss, Grief, and Guilt Teach Us (Whether We Want to Learn or Not)

Writer's picture: Mary DeanMary Dean

“The wound is the place where the light enters you.” – Rumi


A few years ago, I stumbled upon the poetry of Rumi, an ancient mystic whose words resonated with me in a way no other poetry had. For months, I made a ritual of pulling up a Rumi quote each morning and journaling about it, letting his wisdom shape my thoughts. The quote above surfaced often.


I only understood it on a surface level.


Then came the past twelve months—a year that left me with more wounds than I ever expected. I lost my father. I endured three back-to-back illnesses. And most recently, I faced one of the hardest losses yet: my very best friend, Scotty, a Shih Tzu who became my “son” when I met and married my wife.


Mondays were our day. 


Every Monday, Scotty and I had our little routine—I’d take him to Starbucks for a pup cup, and we’d share Johnny’s Pizza later that evening. I even had a ridiculous song, one I sang every Monday morning without fail: “Hey Scotty, it's your day, you're the cutiest boy, you're the cutiest boy.” It was the kind of song that made my wife and kids cringe, but Scotty loved it, and that was all that mattered.


Now, I know—this might seem like the kind of post you’d rather skip. Grief, loss, pain, and weird dog mom songs… these aren’t exactly easy or uplifting topics. But as I sit here on this Monday morning, reflecting on Rumi’s words, I realize they hold a truth that goes far beyond this moment, far beyond my own grief.


And it’s one I want to share with you.





1. Guilt is just love looking for a place to go.


I’ve spent so many nights replaying moments with Scotty, with my dad—wondering if I could have done more, been more, noticed more. That’s what guilt does. It tricks you into believing you failed somehow. But the truth? Guilt is just love that doesn’t know where to land now that its source is gone.


What if I had pushed the vet for more tests when they said everything was fine with Scotty last year—but I knew, empathically, that he wasn’t? What if I had trusted that quiet, nagging voice that told me something was off? What if I had asked more questions, pushed harder, demanded a different outcome?


Why didn’t I take the time to write down the story of my dad’s life like I wanted to? I had the intention. I had the words forming in my head. But I let time slip by, assuming there would always be more of it—until suddenly, there wasn’t.


The next time guilt creeps in, I try to remind myself: This isn’t failure. This is love, searching for a home. And maybe that home is in the stories I tell, the rituals I keep, the way I carry them forward.


Heartwork: Write Them Home

Write a letter, a journal entry, or even just a few sentences as if you were speaking directly to the person or pet you’ve lost. Tell them what you regret, what you miss, what you wish they knew. Say the things left unsaid. You don’t have to get it perfect—just get it out. Whether you keep it, burn it, or tuck it away, let your love land somewhere.


2. Loss forces you to live inside the present moment, whether you like it or not.


Most of us don’t live in the now. We live in the “what’s next?” or “what went wrong?” We move through life half-present, thinking there’s always more time, more chances, more moments waiting in the wings. But when someone you love is suddenly gone, time changes. The past is frozen, the future feels hollow, and all you’re left with is right now.

It’s a brutal kind of clarity.


Today is the first Monday without Scotty.


My whole body expected the routine—Starbucks, pizza, the ridiculous song. I woke up thinking, I need to get Scotty’s pup cup. Then reality hit like a punch to the stomach. There is no pup cup today. No excited little paws dancing around my feet. No big, expectant eyes waiting for his special Monday treats. I had spent so many Mondays rushing through it, balancing a million other things in my mind, assuming there would always be another one.


But this morning, sitting in the silence where he should have been, I realized how little I had ever fully been in those moments.


Grief, for all its cruelty, forces you to pay attention. To notice the small things, the weight of them. The way the house feels quieter. The way your hands feel too empty. The way love lingers in the spaces they used to fill. And while I would give anything not to have learned this lesson the hard way, it has changed me. It’s made me sit more fully in the present, even when it’s painful.


Heartwork: The 60-Second Pause

At least once today, stop what you’re doing. Close your eyes. Feel your breath. Listen to the space around you. Touch something near you and notice its texture. Be here, fully. Say to yourself: I am alive in this moment, and this moment matters. The present is the only thing we can hold. Don't let it slip by unnoticed.


3. Illness Steals Time—But Only If You Let It.


For months, I felt like my life had been put on pause. Three back-to-back illnesses knocked me down, and all I could do was try to get through each day. I wasn’t living—I was waiting. Waiting to feel better. Waiting to have energy again. Waiting for life to start back up. 


And now, looking back, I feel like I lost that time.


Like I let it slip through my fingers while I was too exhausted, too overwhelmed, too consumed by survival to enjoy any of it.


That’s the cruel trick of illness. It not only takes your health—it makes you believe you have nothing else. It shrinks your world down to doctor’s visits, medications, and the endless frustration of not feeling like yourself. But illness isn’t just about what’s taken. It’s also about what remains.


Because even on the days when I felt like I had nothing, I still had small moments that mattered. A book I read in bed. A quiet conversation with my wife. A silly moment with Scotty that made me laugh despite everything. I didn’t lose those months—I just didn’t see them for what they were. And now, I don’t want to make that mistake again.


Heartwork: Find One Thing That Still Belongs to You

If you’re struggling with illness—physical or emotional—choose one small thing each day that is yours. A book, a song, a morning ritual, a five-minute moment of peace. It doesn’t have to be big; it just has to remind you that life is still happening, and you are still part of it. Don’t let illness take more than it already has.


4. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means integrating.


People say time heals all wounds, but that’s not true. Time doesn’t erase grief—it just teaches you how to carry it differently. Healing isn’t about “moving on.” It’s not about getting over it, closing the door, or pretending the loss didn’t carve a hole in your life.

Healing is about integration.


It’s about letting grief take up space without letting it consume you. It’s about carrying your love forward in new ways rather than leaving it behind. 


Scotty still has his Mondays—just in a different form. Maybe I’ll still get a pup cup and sit with the memory of him. Maybe I’ll still sing the ridiculous song under my breath, even if my wife and kids groan. Maybe I’ll donate to a shelter in his name. His absence is undeniable, but that doesn’t mean his presence has to vanish.


And maybe that’s true for every loss.


The people we lose don’t just disappear. They remain in our stories, our rituals, our choices, the way we love moving forward. They shape us. They travel with us in a different form.


Healing isn’t about leaving them behind. It’s about bringing them with us in a way that allows us to keep living, too.


Heartwork: Create a Bridge

Think of one way you can honor someone (or some pet) you’ve lost—something small, something meaningful. Maybe it’s continuing a tradition they loved. Maybe it’s wearing something of theirs or saying their favorite phrase. Maybe it’s just whispering “I remember” when a memory surfaces.


Final Thoughts

Loss changes us, but love remains. Instead of focusing on what’s gone, find ways to keep their presence alive—tell their stories, continue their traditions, speak their name. Let grief shape you, but not define you. The wound stays, but so does the love. And the best way to honor them is to live fully, carrying that love forward.


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