I Miss You, Luna
Before we go any further,
I want you to know this:
This isn’t a polished lesson or a how-to on grief. This is a love story. One that’s still ongoing.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how to begin this. Because the truth is—
I miss Luna. I miss her in a way that still knocks the air out of my lungs sometimes. Quietly now. Less dramatic than before. But just as real.
This is my first blog post and it feels right that it starts here.
With her. With grief. With love that didn’t end just because her body did.
We woke up on Christmas Eve 2022 knowing something was wrong. Not what—just that feeling. That deep, animal, bone-level knowing that something is off and pretending otherwise would be lying to ourselves.
The emergency clinic I trusted—the one where I could stay with her—was about forty-five minutes away. So we loaded up the car and drove. I remember the road more than the visit. The waiting. The air feeling heavy. I don’t remember much of what the vet said, except that it wasn’t good. Except that we were essentially told it was the end of her life.
On the way home, we stopped at the pet store by our house. The one I still can’t walk into.
We bought anything we thought she might eat. She didn’t.
And then we waited.
I laid on the ground with her. I held her. I tried to feed her. I made sure she was comfortable. Hard conversations happened in the background—quality of life, timing, the unbearable responsibility of deciding when love means letting go.
Looking back now, I know I was dissociated. I don’t remember eating. Or drinking water. Or standing up. Christmas Eve and Christmas were spent on the floor with her. I called out of work. Time didn’t feel real.
When we woke up on New Year’s Eve, I knew. It was her time.
I don’t remember much of that morning either—except for the moment she took her last breaths in my arms at home. Bless my partner and our roommate for handling my immediate grief and absolute terror with so much grace. I was inconsolable. My best friend in the whole world was gone.
Wanting to extend my time with her—to make sure her body was cared for—we drove her to Napa, to Bubbling Wells. We said our final goodbyes. We picked out her urn.
That drive home? I was sure I was going to die.
I truly did not believe it was humanly possible to live without her.
Luna was my ride or die.
I got her in 2012, during my last year of college. In her ten years alive, we lived in six homes together. I spent my entire twenties growing up with her. We had our first apartment alone together—just me and her—and she became my whole entire life.
I know in my bones, my body, my soul that she was my soul cat.
Our connection went deeper than anything I could ever explain without sounding unhinged (and honestly, I’m okay with that).
The grief before, during, and after her passing was pain like I have never felt before. And I doubt I’ll ever feel again. Most of 2023 is a blur. I was numb. Empty. Alone without my best friend.
Last year, I began a journey to become a Soul-Level Animal Communicator.
I didn’t know then where that path would take me. I just knew I was searching for something. Answers. Language. A way to survive my grief without letting it calcify inside me.
Now I have a community of people who understand this kind of love and loss. People who don’t think I’m crazy. A safe place to land when the grief hits out of nowhere. A space where I’ve learned—deeply—why animals come into our lives.
Every animal. Yes, every one.
Each comes with a soul-level lesson they’re working through with us. And when that lesson is complete, they cross over. We don’t get to change the timeline. We don’t get to negotiate the ending.
We only get to trust that there is divine timing for every. single. thing.
This understanding reshaped my grief—and even my anticipatory grief for my other two babies (who I hope are sticking around for a very long time, thank you universe).
Luna’s loss cracked me open.
And I believe—wholeheartedly—that she’s still working with me from beyond. Still guiding. Still nudging. Still sending signs when I need them most.
This is my third year now of a ritual that runs from December 24th through December 31st, in her honor.
I buy a bouquet of sunflowers—my favorite flower, and the ones in the tattoo I got of my Lu before she passed. I light a candle each day. One for every day she lived during that final week.
I try to hold this time with fond memories now. With gratitude. With warmth. Rather than only the pain of losing her much sooner than I ever imagined.
She was only ten.
But she lived a full life. And she changed mine forever.
So here’s to you, my Lu.
I miss you. I love you.
Please don’t ever stop visiting. Please keep sending the signs.
I’ll keep listening. 🐾✨
If you’re here because your grief is fresh—because everything hurts and nothing makes sense yet—I want to say this gently:
Grief is temporary and permanent.
It changes shape. It softens. It integrates. But it also becomes part of who you are, because love does. Both things can be true.
Please know this: community exists. Even if you haven’t found it yet. Even if right now you feel isolated, untethered, or like no one could possibly understand this kind of pain.
You do not have to go through this alone.
From someone who has been through it—you will move through it too. I know you don’t believe me right now. That’s okay. I’ll hold the belief for you until you can carry it yourself.
Sending hugs. Truly.