Starting Over on the Road (But Not Quite Whole)

It’s been nearly five years since we last spent the night anywhere else.
Since September 2020, we haven’t left.
Not for a night. Not for a weekend.
And now, we’re preparing to travel again.
This time in an old camper — a new beginning, but also a return.
A fragile hope that movement might bring healing.

But there’s something — someone — missing.

Our babygirl Kaiya isn’t coming with us.
Because she’s gone.

We lost her.
Suddenly.
Violently, in a way that left no marks, but ripped through everything inside us.
She should have been on my OH’s lap, curled up, ears flopping with every bump in the road.
Instead, she’s in the garden.
Buried.
And we’re supposed to drive away?

They say grief comes in waves.
But this isn’t a wave — it’s a weight.
And according to science, that’s not in our heads.
It’s in our brains.

Studies show that the bond between humans and dogs mirrors that of a parent and child.
Dogs read our facial expressions, seek physical closeness, and regulate our emotional states. (Scientific American)
And when that bond is broken — especially after 15 years —
our brains react with the same neurological pain as losing a close human relative.
It’s not “just a dog.” It’s attachment.
It’s routine.
It’s identity.

Kaiya was part of everything.
And now everything has changed.

And the way we lost her…
I don’t think I’ll ever fully make peace with that.

We were at one of our lowest points.
I was already drowning in germaphobia — spiraling from years of trauma and the paranoia of a pandemic that shattered my sense of safety.
I couldn’t touch her freely.
Not without washing.
Not without fear.

The vet touched her. I cleaned her.
She was dying — and I didn’t know.
Because they told us she was going to be okay.
They gave us a pill.
Said she’d need it for the rest of her life.

They forgot to mention…
her “rest of life” was the day after tomorrow.

And so while her body was shutting down, I was still disinfecting it.
Trying to protect her.
But also pushing her away.

And if I’d known it was goodbye?
I would have held her much longer and sooner.
I would have chosen her over fear.
But I didn’t get that choice.

Sudden pet loss like this often leads to what psychologists call complicated grief — a persistent, heightened mourning that can lead to anxiety, guilt, and trauma symptoms.
And the pain is compounded by what researchers describe as disenfranchised grief — the kind that society doesn’t validate.
The kind where people say “It was just a dog,”
and you go quiet because you realize:
they have no idea what she meant.

Fifteen years.
She was family, healer, companion, mirror.
She saw us through my late teenage years, twenties and into our thirties.
She moved with us, waited for us, forgave us endlessly.
And when she left, she took whole parts of us with her.

And yet, we’re supposed to move forward.
Pack a camper.
Hit the road.
Smile for the camera.
Try to find ourselves again, without the one who helped us feel whole in the first place.

And even if we manage to do that —
what then?

We come back.

We come back to this place that we’ve been trying to leave for years.
To Mum’s house.
Where we live in a single, hot room, on a bed we never leave, in a space we never chose.
Where overstimulation keeps us in constant survival mode.
Where Kaiya’s memory lives in every object, but her warmth is gone.

But now even this painful, suffocating space might be slipping away.
Because my mother is waiting — eagerly — for us to leave.
Not so we can find rest or healing, but so her boyfriend can finally stay over.
She doesn’t say it outright, but it’s clear in her questions, her impatience, her need for answers.
She keeps demanding to hear our plans,
even though I’ve told her — again and again —
that we don’t want to plan.

Because every day we’ve spent here for the last few years has already been a plan.
A plan we didn’t make.
A plan built around survival, around keeping the peace, around hiding from the world that never understood us.

We crave spontaneity not because it’s fun,
but because it’s freedom.
And still, she takes everything literally.
She turns “We don’t know yet” into “They don’t care,”
and “We’ll leave soon” into “They’ll never go.”

So I’m scared to return.
Scared that while we’re gone, her boyfriend will take our place — literally and symbolically.
That our room, our tiny corner of this house, this city, this life —
will feel even less like ours.
That the last threads connecting this space to the word home will snap for good.

And there’s another fear, one that’s harder to admit but always there —
that something terrible will happen while we’re gone.

My fear of fire is real.
It’s loud.
It’s specific.

Because Mum is away every single night for hours, and no one watches the house.
And I worry — not just about losing a building where I’ve lived all my life,
but about losing everything that Kaiya left behind.
Her blanket. Her sweater. Her leash. Her bowl.
The last physical pieces of her.
What if they go up in smoke?
How could I possibly grieve her again?

And then there’s Mart.
And the love that used to feel effortless.

Over the years, I’ve been feeling less of it.
Not because he did something wrong.
Not because I stopped caring.

But because we’ve both changed.
We’ve been trapped in a small, overstimulating room together for years —
battling stress, trauma, grief, and poverty.
People don’t stay the same under those conditions.
We didn’t.

We used to dream together.
Now we survive together.

And I wonder — how do couples survive when they’ve grown into different versions of themselves?
When the people they once fell in love with are no longer there?

We’re about to travel together again.
But what if the road makes it clear we don’t love who we are now?
What if we realize the love we held on to was mostly for the people we used to be?
Or for the people that we could’ve been?

That might break me more than the grief already has.

But we can’t stay here either.
Something has to change.
We need movement.
We need space.
We need peace.

Even if it means leaving Kaiya behind for a while.
Even if it means facing the fear of returning.
Even if it means confronting the possibility that we’re not who we once were — and maybe, that’s okay.

I don’t have answers. Only questions that ache quietly in my chest. But I know this: we need movement. We need nature. We need a break from survival. Even if it breaks us a little more first.

Grief is not linear.
Love is not simple.
And healing is not a straight road.

And maybe — just maybe — the road still holds something for us.
Not a destination.
Not a solution.
But a moment of peace.
A stretch of silence soft enough to rest inside.
A place where we remember who we are beneath all the fear, the noise, the grief.

And maybe that’s all we can ask for right now.
A sunrise that doesn’t hurt.
A quiet morning without guilt.
A reminder that even after loss, even after everything —
we’re still allowed to begin again.

Not whole.
But moving.
Still moving.