Unlived lives

where dreams go after you release them

Last year, on Ellise’s first birthday, I joked that the whole United States was celebrating her. Since every Fourth of July the sky explodes into colours anyway, so why couldn’t I believe that millions secretly set off fireworks just for one ridiculously happy little Australian Shepherd. I don’t think she would have questioned it. She would have just accepted that, of course, America loved her as much as I do.

Today she would have turned two.

Grief evolves over time in unexpected ways. Initially, it's overwhelming and loud, weighing on your chest and following you everywhere. Eventually, it shifts into a softer, less obvious presence. People might think it has lessened, but in reality, it has just adapted to living within you, no longer needing to shout, because it knows exactly where to find you.

This afternoon, here in Ohio, we drove to a river carrying a tiny glass bottle. Inside was a small piece of paper, torn from last year’s journal.

Written on that paper was one of the very first dreams from my old bucket list: that Eliott and Ellise would one day have puppies.

I wrote that list nearly two years ago, before my life became almost unrecognizable. Back then, I still thought I knew what my future looked like. I thought there would be a home somewhere with a garden. I thought there would be laughter, chaos, muddy paws, definitely more Australian Shepherds than any sensible person should own, and one day little puppies running after Eliott and Ellise while I complained about having no clean clothes because somebody had stolen all my socks again. Looking back now, I almost smile at the innocence of that version of me. She had no idea.

She had no idea that she would leave her country. She had no idea she would one day cross an ocean with two dogs because leaving them behind had never even been an option. She had no idea she would lose almost everything that once made her feel safe, rebuild her career in another language, fight a system she had never imagined she would have to understand, or spend nights wondering whether she would ever feel at home anywhere again.

And she definitely had no idea that one of those two little dogs, who were supposed to grow old together, would never even make it to her second birthday.

We stood by the river, and for a moment, I hesitated to let the bottle go. It was the final physical reminder of a future that no longer exists.

Eventually, I threw it into the water, and we watched it drift away together. I’m happy I finally didn’t just choose to burn this piece of paper. Saying goodbye like this felt weirdly respectful. I’m happy I didn’t choose to burn my dreams but released them. I don’t know why that difference feels so important to me, but it does. Burning something is violent. It says, “I don’t want this anymore.”

This wasn’t that. I still long for that life. I still wish Ellise were here. I still want to see Eliott become a father. I still hope for tiny black tricolor puppies in my future. Throwing that bottle into the river wasn’t me pretending those dreams didn't matter anymore; rather, it was accepting that they no longer belonged to me.

Rivers have always intrigued me because they don't hold on to anything; instead, they just carry things along until they reach their destination.

Maybe dreams do exactly the same. Maybe not every dream is meant to stay with the person who first dreamt it. Maybe some dreams only exist to shape us before floating away.

Watching that bottle starting it’s travel with the river, I suddenly wondered where our dreams go when they leave us. Maybe nowhere. Maybe everywhere. Maybe somebody else will one day have exactly the family with the pups I imagined for myself.

Maybe one day another little Australian Shepherd will somehow find me when I least expect it. Life has surprised me so many times that I no longer feel brave enough to say “never”.

Reading that old bucket list before folding the paper felt like opening a letter from somebody I loved very much but no longer know. Some dreams still sounded exactly like me, others made me smile, and some belonged to a woman who no longer exists.

It made me realize how completely wrong we are when we talk about personal growth. We imagine change happens because we read enough books, listen to enough podcasts, attend enough workshops, download enough meditation apps, or finally meet the right mentor who changes our perspective.

I don’t think that’s where the biggest changes happen. I think life changes us despite ourselves. I think the deepest transformations begin the moment life takes away something we believed we couldn’t possibly live without. Losing Ellise changed me more profoundly than anything else ever has, because death so tragic, so unexpected, so unfair does something that no education, no therapist, no philosophy, and no self-help book can ever do.

It destroys the illusion that you have endless fucking time.

It compels you to confront your life directly, without relying on the comforting excuse that you’ll do it later: the journey, the departure, forgiveness, writing the book, saying I love you, or becoming who you're meant to be.

Ellise’s death forced me to meet myself in a way nothing else ever had. The woman underneath all the achievements, all the plans, all the identities I had spent decades carefully building.

After everything that has happened over the past two years, I genuinely wasn’t sure whether I would ever trust another person enough to let them back into my life, because betrayal changes your nervous system long before it changes your heart.

Here I am, celebrating the Fourth of July in Ohio with people who welcomed my dog and me into their home, watching children cuddle Elliott and chatting with a dad who makes me feel at ease. We laugh about their Hungarian Vizsla, a small reminder of home from the universe. Those who haven’t experienced loss of safety might not realize how powerful simple kindness truly is.

Being welcomed into a family, even if it’s temporarily, isn’t just about meeting my partner’s parents or children. It is about my nervous system slowly remembering that maybe not every door opens, so it can hurt me.

Maybe there still are some doors that simply open because someone is happy I walked through them.

I looked at Eliott. I haven’t seen him like this since we lost Ellise.

For a moment, he remained calm, patient, and nearly gentle. Although the Vizsla growled at him multiple times, Eliott instinctively stepped back, recognizing that fear and uncertainty often require space rather than correction.

He never took a toy that wasn’t his. He never pushed, he never reacted.

Watching him made me absurdly proud, because I realized he had healed enough to be gentle again. Maybe we both have.

I still think about Ellise every single day; there isn’t a day when I don’t. I still look for her without meaning to. I still look for her, but I've finally accepted that I’m not going to find her. It’s a painful acceptance, but it also brings peace, and it ends that relentless, furious chaos in my mind. Pain will never disappear, but the exhausting, hopeless, obsessive searching finally does when you realize you CAN continue after you lost the love you loved the most, and you CAN live half alive, simply loving someone without expecting life to give them back.

Today would have been your second birthday, my beautiful girl.

As I watched that tiny bottle disappear into the river, I realized something I wasn’t capable of understanding until now.

The river isn’t vanishing my dreams; it's just carrying them, as I grew exhausted from bearing them alone for so long, and at last, I lacked the strength to keep going while still holding onto them.

Happy birthday, my little angel.

I still miss you; I always will.

I still choose to believe the fireworks are for you.

And with every passing day, I find a little comfort in knowing that I'm one day closer to the moment I'll see you again beyond this life.