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There’s no easy way to say this…
Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, and special events—these are some of the most beautiful and brutal parts of the grief journey. Beautiful because they give us a reason to celebrate. Brutal because they remind us of what’s missing.
Whether it’s their birthday, the day you adopted them, the anniversary of their passing, or your first Christmas without them—grief has a way of showing up on these days like an uninvited guest.
Our body holds the memory of trauma and grief. And it’s hard to explain, but just like the birds know when to migrate and flowers know when to bloom, our nervous system and energy field also knows what time of year it is.
It’s happened too many times to count. I’ve been moving through my day feeling low, off, just not myself—only to realize later… “Oh. It’s my mum’s birthday.” My heart knew, even when my mind didn’t.
So be gentle with yourself. Don’t wait until the sadness hits you out of nowhere. Put all the important dates in your calendar—birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. Even if you think you’ll remember. These dates are sacred. You don’t need to dread them—but you do deserve to prepare for them.
What you plan doesn’t have to be big or elaborate. Just something intentional. A quiet moment. A candle lit. A letter written. A flower placed in their memory. The truth is: the pain of grief intensifies when we feel disconnected, when we feel like their memory is fading. A simple ritual can restore that connection in the most tender and powerful ways.
Here are a few ways to honor your Rainbow One:
And if you’re feeling brave, invite others to join you in remembering them. Share a story. Say their name. Tell someone about who they were and what they meant to you.
The simplest, most healing thing we can do is to speak their name. To say: “I miss them.” Or “This was their favorite time of year.” Or “They would’ve loved this.”
Even when it feels awkward. Even when others don’t understand.
My husband never knew my mum or my first dog Jessie. But he does now. Through the stories I tell. Through the photos on our walls. Through the tears I’ve cried and the rituals we’ve shared. They are still part of our family.
It’s a dance—letting joy and sorrow swirl together. Including your loved one in an upbeat celebration, while also making space for any sadness that comes up.
Let me say this clearly: No one else gets to decide how much someone meant to you.
If someone tells you, “She was just a dog,” or “It’s been a year, aren’t you over it?”—please know this: you are not crazy, you are not too sensitive, and you are not wrong for loving the way you do.
It is such a brave thing to honor your truth even when others don’t understand it.
We can either live our truth or someone else’s. And I choose mine.
Every celebration is an invitation. Not just to grieve again, but to love again. To remember again. To reconnect again.
Because every act of remembrance is also an act of love.
You’re not just honoring the one you lost—you’re honoring the part of yourself that is still here. The part that’s learning how to live with a broken heart, and still be open. Still be soft. Still be real.
And that’s one of the bravest things you’ll ever do.
I cried a lot during the 2 months and 2 days Ellie’s perfect fur body was next to mine.
And often I wouldn’t even know why I was crying.
I would cry from pure exhaustion.
I would cry when she couldn’t get up, knowing and feeling how frustrated she was.
I would cry from confusion, not knowing how to help her, not knowing if I was doing the right stuff, not knowing how everything was going to work out.
And I cried because I missed Fenix, and I knew he missed me.
I’ll never forget our first Christmas together.
I was so excited. I had all these big expectations. I thought it was going to be magical—romantic, cozy, perfect.
But instead, I found myself feeling totally off. I couldn’t explain it. I just felt… abandoned. Unloved. Unimportant. Still, I did what so many of us do—I held it together. I smiled through it. I tried to be okay.
Then the day after Christmas, I snapped. I exploded at Eric—blamed him for not loving me enough, for not showing up in the way I wanted.
And then… I broke down. Completely.
That’s when the truth poured out: I was missing my Mum.
I was missing her so much, and I hadn’t even realized it. I was feeling abandoned—not by Eric—but because Christmas didn’t include her. I hadn’t made space for the grief, so it came out sideways. Honestly, no matter what Eric had done or not done, I probably still would’ve found a reason to feel hurt. Because the real pain wasn’t about him.
And I’m so grateful that I let myself fall apart that day. That I cried. That I finally let myself feel what was really going on underneath all the frustration.
Because here’s what I’ve learned—especially through working with couples:
Most relationships don’t deepen because people won’t break down in front of each other.
They stay stuck in anger, annoyance, resentment… instead of softening into the sadness that’s living underneath it all. And that’s what builds true intimacy—having the courage to feel what’s really there, and letting your partner witness it.
Every Christmas now, Eric buys me a dark chocolate orange.
It’s such a small thing, but it means the world to me. I used to give one to my Mum every year. Now, Eric wraps one and places it under the tree. And every year, when I open it—even though I know it’s coming—I cry. He holds me. Sometimes I share a memory of her, sometimes I just let the tears come. Either way, it’s a moment of love. Of honoring. Of connection.
And now, Christmas includes her. Not just in memory—but in the way I let myself feel.
Let me say something really clearly:
You get to choose what you want to celebrate, when you want to celebrate it, and how you want to do that.
Maybe you want to celebrate their birthday and Christmas, but not their Rainbowversary—the date they crossed the Rainbow Bridge. That’s okay. Maybe that day feels too raw, or too quiet, or too full of pain. And maybe one year, that changes.
Maybe the day you want to honor is their Gotcha Day—the anniversary of the day they came into your life. That might be the one that lights you up with joy, and makes you feel closest to them.
Or maybe you celebrate them every Sunday. Or only on full moons. Or not on a date at all, but in spontaneous little rituals that come from your heart.
You don’t have to do what anyone else does.
And you don’t have to do what you’ve always done.
Grief changes us. And so does love. Which means what we need in any given season of life can change too.
Some years you’ll want to plan something beautiful and intentional. Other years, you’ll just want to light a candle and breathe their name.
Let all of that be okay.
There is no schedule. No formula. No calendar that gets to tell your heart when or how to feel.
This isn’t about checking boxes or creating rituals out of obligation. It’s about creating your way of honoring the love you shared. A way that feels real and supportive for you.
The only thing that matters is that you get to include them in your life… in a way that actually works for your heart.
And that’s the real celebration.
There is no right way to grieve. And there is certainly no right way to celebrate.
Some years you’ll feel strong. Other years, you’ll barely get through.
Let that be okay.
One year you might want to host a gathering. Another year you might want to curl up in bed and watch old videos of them and cry your heart out. Both are beautiful. Both are healing.
You don’t need to get it “right.” You just need to honor what feels most true for you in the moment.
You’re doing it right, because you’re doing it with love.
Great Job! That’s Week 15 Reading Complete 🏆 🎉 😁 🙌
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