All the “Firsts” Without Pepper

I knew the “firsts” were going to be hard, but no one warned me just how hard they would hit!

When you lose a pet who was woven into the very fabric of your days for eleven years, grief doesn’t just hit you in one giant wave and recede. It meets you in the tiny, microscopic moments of your routine. It’s the first morning you wake up, and you can’t feel her lying right next to you, making sure she is always touching. It’s the first time you walk into the kitchen, and you don’t hear her tap dancing across the floor to see if you have anything for her!

It’s only been 2 weeks since Pepper passed away, and I am slowly learning how to navigate this completely unfamiliar landscape.

The first few days were pure survival. But now, I’m in the thick of the “firsts”—the first rainy day without her curled up next to me on the couch, the first walk around the block where my hands felt strangely light without her lead. What am I supposed to do with my hands when I walk if I’m not holding her lead?
Each milestone feels like a quiet confrontation with reality. It’s a reminder that the world keeps spinning, even when your heart feels frozen in time.

I’ll be honest: processing this grief is not a linear journey. Some days, I can look at photos of Pepper and smile at her goofy expressions or her shaggy looks. Other days, I see some black fluff on my favourite blanket, and it completely undoes me.

But as I walk through this valley, God has been gently teaching me about the sacredness of sorrow. In our fast-paced culture, we are constantly pressured to “move on” or find the silver lining. We want to hurry through the pain to get to the healing. But faith doesn’t mean bypassing the tears; it means trusting the One who is holding you while you cry.

Jesus was called a “man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.” He understands the deep ache of an empty space. I’ve found comfort (most days) in realizing that I don’t have to rush this process. God isn’t checking a clock, wondering when I’ll get over losing my sweet girl. He is simply present.

The pain I feel is simply proof of how deeply I loved. Pepper’s absence hurts because her presence was such a massive blessing.

I am still processing, and my heart is still mending. The house still feels way too quiet, and I still look for her out of the corner of my eye. But I am moving forward, one day, one “first,” and one prayer at a time.
If you’re in a valley today, take heart. You don’t have to be strong. You just have to let yourself be held.