Letters for grief
Grief comes in many shapes, and the letters in this theme reflect that. The death of a parent or a partner. The end of a long relationship. A miscarriage. A friend, a sibling, a pet who was your closest company. A body that no longer works the way it used to. A future you had quietly assumed you would have. The slow grief of watching someone disappear into illness or addiction. All of it counts, and all of it is welcome here. Letters in this theme are written by people who have moved through their own version of it and remember exactly what it asked of them — the supermarket cry, the anniversary ambush, the unbearable lightness of a Sunday afternoon. They do not try to soothe the loss. They sit beside it.
She was just a dog. Just a cat. Just a small life.
Except she was the small life that met you at the door for fifteen years. Except she was the warm shape on the bed during your worst year. Except she was the one constant when everything else changed.
She was not just anything. She was a real love, and the grief is a real grief, and the people telling you it'll be easier when you get another one have not understood the question. You don't need another one. You needed her, and she is gone, and you are allowed to be levelled by it.