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It felt like a loop I couldn’t break.
The pain of losing her would hit me, and before I could even sit with it, my mind would start racing—analyzing, questioning, searching for a way I could have saved her. Did I make the right decision? Did I really do everything I could? My brain kept cycling through the details, trying to rewrite the past.
This is the suffering we create—the kind we can learn to release.
I was desperate for peace, searching for it the way we all do—through logic, reasoning, and certainty.
But peace isn’t found there.
As humans, we crave control. And we try to feel in control—to feel safe—by being right.
Honestly, this part of being human is so frustrating. Because deep down, I know I did right by Ellie. Even now, as I type this with tears in my eyes, I know I spent hours with her every day. I lived and breathed for this perfect, precious being. I know I went above and beyond. I deserve to feel at peace with the choices I made.
But that doesn’t stop the waves of doubt. Early on, I still felt wrong. Uneasy. Guilt-ridden. Sometimes even ashamed.
That’s where my 4-Step ‘Feeling for Healing’ method came in. It didn’t just help me process my grief—it also helped me release the shame of letting go.
When we’re in pain, it’s easy to get lost in an endless loop of thinking, analyzing, rehashing, and replaying. But the relief we need isn’t found in the mind. I already knew I made the right choice. The real healing had to come from the heart.
This simple 4-Step method helps us shift from our heads into our hearts, allowing us to feel and process what we truly need in each moment.
Because I use this method at least once a week—sometimes daily—it became my lifeline when I lost Ellie. But if you’re new to therapy or self-healing, I encourage you to seek compassionate support from others alongside your own healing journey.
When we lose someone we love beyond words, we need structure and safety to get through. This grieving method will support you in your darkest moments, but like learning to play the violin, it takes practice. The more you use it, the more natural it becomes. Commit to practicing it, so when you truly need it, it will be there for you.
The guilt and shame I felt were compounded by something I still hesitate to share.
For those who followed Ellie’s story, you already know—I was preparing to send Ellie to a new home in Ohio.
I had only ever been fostering Ellie. It was a foster-to-adopt situation, hoping she and Fenix would be a good fit. But they weren’t.
Fenix changed when Ellie arrived. His mood and behavior shifted. He wasn’t happy. And deep down, I knew that. Even when we babysit his sister—the dog he’s most comfortable with—he shuts down when he realizes she’s staying the night. He just likes having me all to himself. And that’s okay.
So, as hard as it was, I worked to find Ellie a loving forever home. And I did.
Michael, in Ohio, was perfect. He lived for his dogs. He had three, all of whom loved welcoming new canine companions. Mac, the oldest, had even become a mentor to puppies—exactly what Ellie needed. Because about a month into caring for her, we discovered something else.
Ellie was blind.
She needed another dog to help guide her, to teach her how to be a dog. And Michael’s home was ideal for that.
Of course, Ohio was far. But after reaching out to every disabled/neuro rescue on the West Coast and searching for months, Michael’s home was the only real option. So we started making plans.
Michael began preparing his home for her. And I booked an MRI.
Not because I thought she was dying.
I got the MRI to make sure she could fly.
Air travel is stressful for any dog, but for one with a neurological condition, it can be dangerous. Changes in altitude and pressure could make her symptoms worse. I needed to know she could handle the trip. That was my only focus that day.
Looking back, I can’t believe how much I didn’t see.
I told my husband I feared she was getting worse. I even mentioned it in my videos. But I wanted her to get better so badly that I convinced myself she was.
Now, reviewing all the footage I have of her, it’s painfully clear.
Her ability to stand and walk had declined fast. She could barely take a step. And her aggression was escalating. Sounds triggered her profoundly—she would lash out in terror, reacting with fear and pain.
I just couldn’t see it then. I only saw what I wanted to see: Ellie getting better. Ellie being okay.
But the MRI results forced me to see the truth.
Ellie didn’t just have cerebellar hypoplasia (which is non-degenerative). She had a rapidly worsening brain disease. The neurologist confirmed she was in constant pain, living in overwhelming fear. He urged us to let her go.
And for the first time, I saw it.
Her fear. Her pain. The way she flinched at noise. The aggression that wasn’t aggression at all—it was terror.
All those moments when she seemed anxious, when she lashed out, when she pulled away from me… she was suffering.
And as much as we shared the most exquisite moments—ones made even more beautiful by our challenges together—her brain could be triggered in an instant. And in those moments, I believe she was scared of everything.
Even me.
So why do I STILL feel that murky, swampy shame in my stomach sometimes? When it’s so clear that I did the right thing while she was alive and I did the right thing to let her go.
I’ll unpack this fully in Week 13 [Reading] Guilt & Shame, but here’s the bottom line:
As highly compassionate, empathetic, and sensitive beings, we often resonate so deeply with others that we feel responsible for them. We unconsciously believe it’s our job to save them. So when something goes wrong, we instinctively take on guilt and shame—even when we know in our minds that we’re not at fault.
The truth is, our minds aren’t the objective, rational machines we think they are. They’re influenced by unconscious emotions and years of conditioning.
To break free from the downward spiral of our minds, we need help shifting into the upward spiral of our hearts.
And to truly free ourselves from the suffering of guilt and shame, we need a radically different approach—one rooted in self-compassion.
If you’re human, you’re going to have doubts.
Doubting and blaming—it’s what the mind does. It’s how it’s designed to work. And that’s why one of the most valuable things we can do is create space for those thoughts, to accept that they will come and go. The inner dialogue of Did I do enough? Did they really love me?—it’s natural. And just recognizing that, without fighting it, is in itself healing.
But the real skill is knowing when we’re trapped in that storm. When our minds are spinning, analyzing, rehashing, replaying. The key is learning how to shift our focus—out of the mental spiral and into the body, into the actual feelings beneath the thoughts.
I created this four-step practice initially for myself. At first, I never imagined sharing it. But now, after thousands of people have used it and told me how much it changed their lives, I know how powerful it is.
Because even when we know what works—when we know what’s needed in those moments of deep pain and grief—our minds still resist. We forget. We don’t care. We spiral.
And when that happens, we throw a pity party.
And here’s the thing—we need the pity party.
We need to let ourselves feel, to express the hurt fully. But if we stop there, if we don’t allow a rescue party to follow, we’ll just keep recycling the pain.
It’s a simple concept, really.
We know how to support others when they’re hurting. We do it instinctively, especially with children. But somehow, as adults, we act like we don’t need the same care.
We do.
So let’s imagine this for a moment:
A six-year-old comes home from school, sobbing.
They tell you they got bullied. That they hate school. That they’re never going back.
What do you do?
What do you say?
How do you feel?
Here’s what I would do:
I’d scoop them up. Wrap them in my arms. Hold them while they cry.
I’d listen. Really listen.
I wouldn’t jump in with solutions. I wouldn’t try to convince them school is good or that everything will be fine. I’d just be there. I’d love them. I’d listen until they felt truly seen and understood—until they no longer felt alone.
And I would keep listening and loving them for as long as they needed.
That’s what we do, right? We love people when they’re hurting. We hold them. We make space for their pain.
So why is it so hard to do that for ourselves?
I won’t lie—this isn’t an easy habit to build. But when we learn how to turn that same love inward, when we stop abandoning ourselves in our pain and instead embrace it with care, our whole lives begin to shift.
If what I described with that six-year-old makes sense to you—if that’s how you would respond—then you already have everything you need to do this for yourself.
It’s just going to take practice.
Great Job! That’s Week 6 Reading Complete 🏆 🎉 😁 🙌
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