The Space Between Always and Goodbye

A Letter for the Last Born I Met First

“I love you, always.”
“I will always love you.”
Same words. Different worlds.
The first is a vow I live in, warm, immediate, full of life.
The second is a promise I carry, quiet, and eternal.

But how do you begin to prepare for a goodbye you didn’t see coming?
A goodbye that feels both too soon and suddenly necessary.
Not the kind written in time, but the kind whispered by the divine
When you realize something has to shift.

For me.
And for you.

It took me two days to process this — two days to feel the weight of this new reality,
To gather the words that could hold this kind of love and loss.
How do you hold the weight of a love still so present, but no longer there?

I’ve always said, my firstborn will be my second.
Because I had you first.

I watched you come into this world.
I know your birthday, the time of day you took your first breath.
You were the lastborn, and you carry that spirit so well.
A little dramatic. Deeply affectionate. Full of charm and life.
You knew you were loved, and my God, you made sure I knew I was too.

You’ve taught me that love isn’t spoken, it’s shown.
In tail wags, patient eyes, soft nudges asking for more pets.
In your presence, I found calm.
You’ve walked beside every version of me since you and I met,
never asking for more than the space to simply be.

So how do I say goodbye to you?
To the one who witnessed the mess and the magic,
The one who stayed close through every challenge and every blessing.
Where do I even begin?

Maybe I begin here, by being brave enough to choose love in its most difficult form: release.
To let the words shift
From “I love you, always,”
to “I will always love you,”
to “I choose to let you go.”
Not because the story ends here.
But because the next chapter needs room to begin.

When the time came, and it boldly made itself known,
I hope you knew it wasn’t abandonment.
This is the hardest kind of love I’ve ever had to give.
A love that knows when to stay, and when to let go.

You were never just a pet.
You were my constant.
My reminder to be gentle.
The beginning of a me that pushed through, and now, the bittersweet edge of something new.

Since 2019, I’ve loved and lost more animals than I could care to admit
five dogs, several cats, and kittens.
I remember every goodbye like it was yesterday.
I remember what I kept.
I remember missing them.

But the part that always stings the most?
I don’t remember when I stopped missing them.
When they stopped popping into my mind.

And with you, that thought terrifies me.
Because:

I have loved you more.
I have cared for you more.
I know your birthdate.

I know your favorite food, and that for a dog, you had a strange love for carrots

And I know the date I scrolled through my gallery,
Looking for cute photos to attach to your adoption post
It almost feels like betrayal.
Like I’m abandoning you.

But maybe this is me choosing to give us both grace.
To give myself space,
and to give you the better life you deserve.

You’ll always be my “I love you, always.”
Even when I’m whispering it from afar.
And wherever you go next
You’ll always be my “I love you, always.”