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A woman and her dog sit on an alpine hillside above a small church while her late mother appears as warm translucent light — soft watercolor in dusty plum, terracotta, and gold

I Miss My Mom

She couldn’t say she loved me. She said it in Vicks and Jell-O, a jingle bell, a hot iron, a puppy held to her cheek. Fourteen months after losing my mom, grief finally arrived — and so did she.

A woman and her curly reddish-brown dog seen from behind, sitting close together on a hillside at sunset over a valley; the dog leans warmly into her, and beside them a second dog appears as a faint translucent presence of light and memory — soft watercolor in dusty plum, terracotta, and gold

The Knowing One

An AI archive built at the bottom of my life painted a dog I never asked for — my Vanna, gone in April. On memory, co-regulation, and what a clean release of grief feels like from the inside.

A woman and her dog sitting on a hilltop at sunset, looking out over layered mountain ridges receding to a glowing horizon, with a balanced cairn of smooth stacked stones beside them — soft watercolor in dusty plum, terracotta, and gold

The Stack

Mother, therapist, father, sisters, a dog, a move, a lawsuit — eleven months. On carrying compound loss without it becoming who you are.