So, yeah. I'm so so thrilled about the "Best of" news. I feel really honored and grateful and surprised and just heart-filled-up.

But, as it always does, the universe balances out.

Because amidst all this good news, I lost Spike this month.

Which has been...hard.

And I want to write something profound and eloquent about loss, but it's so raw, and I feel a bit out of words. 

We put him to sleep.

It was time. He'd been suffering for a while, and getting worse, and all of that. But knowing that didn't make it easier. 

It was the hardest decision I've had to make, and the hardest thing I've ever had to do—which says a lot, I think, about my lucky life. But still. 

Still, I miss him.

It's worst in the quiet, everyday moments, when I forget to guard against grief. 

I forget to remind myself—he's gone—and I find myself looking for him, checking his bed to see if he's still asleep. 

In his bed, there's a Spike-shaped imprint, left behind.

But he's never there. 

And it is brutal, every time. 

*

But I want to end this letter on a more positive note. I don't want to feel so sad, so heavy. 

Josh and I have been doing this thing, that's been helping. 

We've been telling stories. 

And this sounds very basic and obvious, especially for me, a storyteller—but I was surprised by how much it helped. 

Telling all the good stories balances out the grief. 

   The way he sprinted back and forth when we came home, overjoyed to see us. 

   The way he ran to lick our hands, demanding pets. 

   The way he curled up in bed, just behind my knees. 

So often, I talk about how important stories are. But sometimes, they’re more than that. 

I'd forgotten they are necessary, too. 

So I keep telling myself the good stories, because the sad ones are hard to bear. And these happy memories are comforting, like warm blankets, like fuzzy socks. 

There’s so much love, in the grief. 

It balances out. 

A final note—as per tradition (I mean, I did this once before, but we'll call it tradition), there won't be an email next month. This newsletter needs a break to live its best newsletter-y life—it plans to sip hot chocolate, ice skate (ice wobble?), and burrow under the covers with a million books.

(Okay, now I'm picturing a literal newsletter doing all this, and it's getting weird.)

Anyway, happy holidays.

As always, I hope you're happy and well.

And I’ll see you next year. 💙