Breezy

I miss my Breezy girl, in a way that doesn’t announce itself loudly, but instead settles deep and steady into my chest, like something that has always belonged there. Lately it’s been heavier, more present, as if she’s been brushing up against the edges of my days, reminding me of all the quiet ways she lived alongside me. I think of her constantly, not in grand moments, but in the smallest, most ordinary pieces of life, the ones she made feel full.

I think of her when I feel that familiar swell of emotion and instinctively reach for something to hold, only to remember it was always her. The softness of her ears between my fingers, the grounding comfort of her presence. I think of her while peeling carrots at the kitchen counter, the steady rhythm of it, knowing she would have been right there at my feet, waiting patiently for a bite, part of the ritual. I think of her when I peel off my socks after the gym, smiling through the ache because she used to carry them proudly through the house like they were something worth celebrating. I think of her when the doorbell rings and the house feels too quiet, when I lock up at night and notice the absence of the security I never had to question when she was here.

She was the best. And even that feels too small to say. She was my soulmate, and I do not say that lightly. She came into my life when I was young and on my own in Denver, a time that may not have made the most sense for bringing home a dog, but something in me knew. I met her at six weeks old, took her home at eight, and from that moment forward, there was never really a life without her.

Her name came to me in a fleeting, almost insignificant moment, a stranger calling me “Breezy” one night, explaining it was what Australians called pretty girls. It stayed with me. And when I decided on an Australian Shepherd, I already knew her name. Breezy. It fit her before she even knew it.

And she lived up to it in every way. She lived a life so full it almost feels impossible to hold it all in one memory. She traveled with me across states and countries, to Hawaii and Canada, flew in tiny single-engine planes, ran across beaches, surfed waves, climbed mountains. Wherever I was, she was meant to be. I made sure of it. I couldn’t imagine a life that didn’t include her, so I built one where she never had to be left behind.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years of her beside me through every version of myself I’ve ever been. Through loneliness, growth, heartbreak, joy, she was there for all of it. She had a way of knowing me without words. She could feel when something was off before I could even name it. She would come sit beside me, gently paw at me, look at me with those eyes that saw everything, and somehow, without trying, she would bring me back to myself.

The day she passed was the saddest day of my life. I held her as she took her last breath, and even in that moment, I felt how deeply we belonged to each other. It is a kind of love that doesn’t end just because the physical presence does. It lingers, it reshapes, it stays.

And lately, I think I’ve been missing her more because I’m in a season of life where I need her again. There are moments now where I feel the absence of her in a sharper way, where I wish I could sit beside her and let her quietly steady me like she always did. I used to believe, without question, that I would never be without her. And maybe in some ways, that’s still true. But learning how to exist in a life where I cannot reach out and touch her has been a kind of grief that doesn’t soften, only changes shape.

I don’t think I will ever get over losing her. I don’t think I am supposed to. She was never just a dog to me, she was a constant, a companion, a witness to my life in its most unfiltered form. She was home in a way that cannot be replaced.

So I carry her now differently. In memories that arrive without warning. In habits that still belong to her. In love that has nowhere physical to land, but still exists just the same.

And maybe that’s what it means to have a soulmate like her, you don’t move on from it. You learn how to live while still holding it.