Behind the Chair: Love, Loss, and Letting Go

Grief doesn’t always come from death.

Sometimes it comes from the life you imagined—the one you were so sure your child would have.

This year, our family has lived inside a kind of grief I never expected. We grieved the childhood we thought our daughter would experience. The friendships. The school hallways. The ease. The milestones that felt guaranteed. Anorexia stole so much from her, and from us, and there is no roadmap for mourning something that’s still unfolding.

When our daughter entered recovery, our home became a care facility. Refeeding. Regaining brain health. Restoring trust. Learning how to sit with fear without letting it run the show. Recovery isn’t fast or neat or something you “finish.” It’s ongoing, and it’s something we will always be mindful of and protective over.

She grew up far too fast because of this illness. In a world shaped by comparison, perfectionism, and the deep wound of abandonment from people who she loved or were supposed to love her, she learned early how control can feel like safety. Therapy has become a place where she’s learning how to speak to herself with kindness—how to love who she is, not who she thinks she should be. Watching her do that work is both heartbreaking and awe-inspiring.

And while we were still holding that grief, another loss found us.

Our first dog, Sage.

When I met my husband Joe, he came as a package deal—with Sage by his side, a spunky one-year-old Vizsla full of loyalty and heart. Just as Joe adopted my daughter, I adopted Sage. She became part of our family’s foundation. She was calm during storms and joy when we needed light. Never judgmental. Always loving. Fiercely devoted to our girls, Olivia and Delaney.

After our baby loss—a grief that settled quietly but deeply—I swear Sage felt it. Right before this loss, we brought home our puppy, Rinna, and Sage stepped into a new role with ease. The two became inseparable, and somehow, our family felt whole again.

Sage has lived with dementia for the past two years, along with seizures that slowly changed her days. And still, she hunted. She loved. She stayed herself for as long as she could.

Now we are facing the hardest act of love—letting her go.

We’ve chosen to honor her life by allowing her to pass with dignity, surrounded by the family she gave everything to. We want to remember her as Sage: loyal, gentle, grounding, and full of love. Not defined by her final moments, but by the years she carried us through.

Grief is not something we hide from our kids in our home.

We talk about love. We talk about death. We talk about how both can exist at the same time. We teach them that grief is not weakness—it’s proof of connection. That loving deeply means risking loss. And that even after hardship, life continues to offer meaning, growth, and moments of beauty.

Behind the chair, I hear so many stories of quiet grief—stories people carry while showing up, working, parenting, smiling. This is mine. And if you’re carrying your own, I hope you know you’re not alone.

Love doesn’t end when something changes or leaves.

It stays. It shapes us. And sometimes, it teaches us how to let go with grace.