In my last blog, I shared how choosing a nomadic life after loss has been its own quiet act of freedom. Now, a few weeks in, I’m learning that my 14-year-old dog Miley might just be the wisest travel companion I could have hoped for – showing me, in her own unhurried way, how to live in the present when my mind wants to wander everywhere else.
Today, as I write this, I turn 49. Another birthday rolls around, and life keeps moving forward – even though my brother will never reach this age. There’s a quiet ache in that thought, a reminder that grief doesn’t disappear, but neither does life’s gentle persistence.
I’m parked beside a patch of gravel and grass, the kind that catches the last of the sunlight and holds it for just a little longer. Beside me lies Miley – my 14-year old companion, my co-pilot, my teacher in the art of being here.
It’s been two months since she lost her brother. For a dog who’s always lived in a busy, noisy pack – whippets, border collies, chickens, and humans – this could have felt like a hard, lonely shift. But here she is, adapting to life on the road with quiet dignity and innocence.
She’s already been to her first festival, where she strolled into a morning yoga class and worked the room – well, the mats – like an gentle pro. Downward Dogs came with actual dogs. Each person she visited seemed to melt, giving strokes and pats while she sat patiently, absorbing their affection like sunlight.
Last night, we watched the sun dissolve into the horizon while a family of children played ball with her. Their laughter and her excitement (it is the first time she has run in a long time) filled my heart with joy. And when her paws tire, she is learning to use her new pushchair – her royal chariot – letting the world come to her in scents and sounds before using it as a bed when she needs to.
Miley doesn’t have that same machinery. She lives entirely in dog time – present, sensory, unburdened by yesterday or tomorrow. She trusts she’ll be taken somewhere, that food will appear in the bowl, that grass will be under her paws again soon. She doesn’t measure life in plans or fears, only in the texture of the now.
And that’s the lesson she keeps giving me: grief and joy are not opposites, they are companions. Healing isn’t about leaving loss behind, but about finding room for sunsets, yoga mats, belly rubs, and ball games in the same breath as missing someone you love.
Meanwhile, my own brain – wired with its overactive prefrontal cortex – is staging a constant game of “what if.”
Where will we park tonight?
Where should we go next?
What if I can’t find any water to top up the van?
It’s a familiar trauma pattern: the nervous system scanning ahead and behind, trying to out-think uncertainty. The part of me that believes worry is a kind of insurance policy, even though I know it’s not.
Life Goes On – Slowly, Softly
If you’re living with loss, your mind may race ahead or loop back, scanning for danger or replaying what’s gone. That’s not weakness – it’s your brain doing its best to keep you safe after trauma. But there is another pace available to you.
Borrow a little “dog time” when you can. Feel the earth under you. Notice the light shifting. Accept kindness when it finds you, even if it’s from a stranger. Reach out to a friend to ask for what you need. Take a deep breath.
Life after loss doesn’t demand speed. It asks for presence. And when we let ourselves be here – in the now, even for a moment – the road ahead starts to feel less like something to survive and more like something to travel, slowly, together.
Tomorrow, we’ll roll on to a new patch of grass, a new sunset, and maybe even another ball game with a stranger – Miley and I learning, slowly but surely, that life keeps moving, and so can we – with trust and in surrender to what is.
Love as always to anyone reading this,
Miley &
