We got a new puppy this week.
Warning— if you’re not a dog person, maybe move on to the next email in your inbox.
This puppy! My gooooooooodness. He’s tiny and adorable and very young and very, very needy. I don’t love him yet.
I will.
Right now, though, I’m just sort of… adjusting. I’d gotten out of the stage in life where my mornings involved tending to another creature’s needs. Things had grown… simpler.
But now there is a puppy.
I want to be clear: I am glad for the puppy.
He came along after a pretty rough time— specifically, the mourning of the death of his predecessor, Roxie, my beloved, dedicated, loyal companion dog, the one who is gone now, the one who lived her last day about three months ago, the dog who was part of an accident, hit by a car, a car driven by a wonderful woman, an angel, really, a stranger who stopped, came back, and held me on the grass where I’d moved Roxie’s body.
She stayed until I asked her to leave, and later, she sent a lovely gift. It was an act of profound kindness; she certainly hadn't asked for such a tragic morning, either.
The accident happened on a cold January morning, about 6:30 a.m., when Roxie and I were running, in the dark, just as the sun was rising. It was, according to my movement journal, about the 16,500th mile that dog ran with me.
I don’t think the English language has words for the flattening, stripping devastation of losing such a dog.
I wanted to delete the day.
But I didn’t.
I went to work.
I didn’t go because I had to— my boss and colleagues urged me to take all the time I needed. I wasn’t being a “servant leader” or a martyr; I was taking, not giving.
I went because that day the work kept me going.
I went because I saw two choices: lie in bed and feel as bad as I’ve ever felt, or get up, shower, and show up.
That day, my job served me. The emails softened the grief; the meetings forced my focus; the people held me up. My work friends Melinda and Elizabeth came to my house and tucked dinner into my fridge. Another colleague sent soup. Another handed me tissues when I teared up. Another sent me a gorgeous watercolor of Roxie for my desk.
I got through one day, then another, then more. I kept going to work, putting one foot in front of the other.
Slowly the fog lifted.
Grief has a long tail, and it isn't linear. Sometimes healing looks like soup and a gifted watercolor; other times, it looks like a standard meeting in a conference room, where I can focus on a professional problem to solve.
I am grateful for the work I do, but I am especially grateful that it is a profession where we all can have horrific days and still show up for one another.
Fast forward a few months, and just as we were ready to think about another dog, the perfect rescue situation came along. His name is Sammy.
Last week I came into work after he was up crying several times and had a couple messy accidents. I’d hardly slept. I looked… rough.
But again: My team didn’t need me to be the polished administrator that morning. They just needed me to show up, and in return, they gave me the grace to be tired.
We spend so much time building 'high-performing cultures' and 'data-driven systems.' But at the end of the day, we’re just humans in a building, holding each other up through the 6:30 a.m. tragedies and the 3:00 a.m. puppy cries.
If you’re having a 'one foot in front of the other' kind of week, I see you. The work will be there when the fog clears. For now, just showing up is enough.
Staying curious (and a little caffeinated)—
Jen
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