May 2026

Ever wonder what your best friend notices while the rest of us are busy watching the world rush by?

Golden Retriever sitting on a stump patiently watching the world go by.

Yesterday I stood watching my dog Scarlett stop along the trail to investigate something that apparently deserved her complete and undivided attention. I have no idea what it was. Perhaps a scent left behind by another dog, a patch of grass carrying a story only dogs understand, or something hidden in the wind.

Whatever it was, it was important enough that the world around her simply disappeared.

Meanwhile, I was somewhere else entirely.

I was thinking about work, messages I had not answered, responsibilities waiting for me at home, things I needed to remember, and the many concerns that seem to drift through our lives lately. Rising costs. Uncertainty. Worries about family and friends. The steady stream of information arriving faster than we can process it. Things happening in our communities and across the world that somehow make their way into our hearts whether we invited them there or not.

As I stood there, I realized something uncomfortable:

One of us was standing in the present moment.

And it was not me.

There seems to be a quiet heaviness moving through people lately. Not always the kind that announces itself loudly. More often it arrives disguised as something else.

It looks like forgetting why you walked into a room.

It looks like lying awake thinking about tomorrow.

It looks like feeling tired even after a full night’s sleep.

It sounds like:

“I don’t know why I feel so overwhelmed.”

“I can’t seem to shut my mind off.”

“I just feel off lately.”

I hear these words often in conversations. Sometimes spoken softly, almost apologetically, as though people believe they should somehow be handling life better than they are.

But I wonder if we have become too quick to think something is wrong with us.

For most of human history, our worries stayed close to us. We worried about our family, our community, our home, and the things directly in front of us. Our nervous systems evolved in a world where concerns had boundaries. We could see them, understand them, and respond to them.

Today we wake up and, before our feet even touch the floor, we can absorb uncertainty from every direction. News updates. Financial pressures. Opinions. Fears. Worries for people we love. Stories of suffering from places we may never visit.

Our minds are asked to carry more than perhaps they were designed to carry.

The body does not always know the difference between a danger standing in front of us and a constant stream of information asking for our attention. It continues doing exactly what it was designed to do: scanning, preparing, watching, listening.

Perhaps that is why many people feel as though they are running while sitting still.

Perhaps we are not failing.

Perhaps we are simply carrying too much.

As I stood beside Scarlett, I noticed something else.

She was not thinking about tomorrow.

She was not replaying yesterday.

She was not wondering whether she had made the wrong decision last week or trying to predict next month.

She was simply participating in life as it was arriving.

A scent carried in the wind.

The warmth of sunlight through the trees.

The sound of leaves moving.

The feel of the earth beneath her paws.

I am not suggesting we should all live exactly like dogs. Human beings carry responsibilities and relationships and realities that ask much of us. We cannot ignore the world around us or pretend our concerns do not exist.

But perhaps there is something to learn from creatures that have not read the headlines.

Perhaps there is wisdom in remembering that we were never meant to hold everything all at once.

Perhaps healing is not always found in doing more.

Perhaps sometimes it begins with noticing.

Noticing the wind against your face.

Noticing the rhythm of waves against the shore.

Noticing birdsong you have not heard in weeks because life has been too loud.

Noticing the feeling of your feet touching the earth.

Noticing your dog becoming completely fascinated with something you cannot even see.

The smallest moments often seem insignificant while they are happening. Yet I wonder if they are quietly doing something important.

Maybe they are returning us to ourselves.

The world will continue moving tomorrow.

The headlines will still be there.

But for a few minutes yesterday, standing beside Scarlett on a trail and watching her become deeply fascinated by something hidden in the grass, I remembered something I think many of us have forgotten:

Life is not only what we worry about.

It is also what is happening while we are worrying.

Blessings Deirdre

Nanoose Bay Consultations

Nanaimo Consultations

When Grief Begins Before Goodbye

There are some films that make us cry because someone dies. Then there are films that affect us because they remind us that grief often begins long before death arrives. Kate Winslet’s Goodbye June felt like one of those films for me. I found myself sitting not only with the sadness of loss, but with the quieter and more complicated experience of anticipatory grief—that place where someone you love is still physically here, still breathing, still speaking, still laughing, and yet part of your heart has already begun mourning them.

There is something profoundly lonely about anticipatory grief. You begin grieving someone while simultaneously trying not to lose them. You find yourself suspended between two realities. One part of you wants to stay present and cherish each moment, while another part of you is already bracing for the emptiness that will eventually follow.

Beneath the story of illness in Goodbye June was another story entirely: people trying to survive the knowledge that someone they deeply loved was leaving.

Grief Sometimes Begins Before Death

Anticipatory grief carries a strange tension. It asks us to remain present while part of us is already looking ahead toward loss. There can be guilt in it. We may wonder if grieving before someone dies somehow takes us away from the time we still have with them. We may feel sadness and gratitude existing side by side, and we may feel moments of joy interrupted by waves of sorrow.

The film captured this experience beautifully. There was a quiet ache throughout many scenes because everyone seemed to be standing in that in-between place—still together while slowly preparing for separation.

Perhaps many people who have cared for someone with a life-limiting illness understand this feeling. You begin saying goodbye long before words are spoken.

When Family History Walks Into the Room

As I watched June’s family gather around her, I found myself sitting with an uncomfortable question:

When someone is dying, who is grief about?

Is it about the person who is leaving, or is it about the people who are staying behind?

There were moments throughout the film where the family’s own pain felt so large that it nearly eclipsed June

herself. Old hurts resurfaced. Tension between siblings emerged. Words left unsaid over many years suddenly seemed to rush toward the surface as if time itself had become scarce.

Death has a way of opening doors that have remained closed for years.

Relationships that were already fragile can crack further. Old disappointments can resurface. Regrets can suddenly become loud. We may think we are grieving only the person we are losing, but often we are also grieving unmet needs, lost opportunities, and the realization that some things may never be repaired in the way we had hoped.

Watching this unfold, I wondered how often we unintentionally make dying about ourselves. Not because we are selfish, but because we are afraid.

We want more time.

One more conversation.

One more apology.

One more holiday.

One more chance to say what was left unsaid.

The Courage to Let Someone Go

One scene sat with me long after the movie ended. June asks if it will be okay for her to let go.

That moment felt almost sacred.

Many people who have sat beside someone dying have witnessed some version of this exchange. Sometimes people hold on because they fear leaving those they love behind. Sometimes they stay because they worry someone is not ready. Sometimes they remain because love itself can become an anchor.

Yet perhaps one of the deepest expressions of love is not holding tighter.

Perhaps it is softly saying:

“You do not have to stay for me.”

There is something heartbreaking about those words, but there is also something deeply compassionate within them. Love can sometimes ask us to release our grip rather than strengthen it. It asks us to place the needs of the person we love above our own fear of losing them.

Love Does Not End Where the Body Ends

What touched me most about Goodbye June was its reminder that grief itself is not simply pain.

Grief is love continuing after there is nowhere physical left for it to go.

We often hear people speak about “moving on” after loss, but perhaps reconciliation with grief is not about moving on at all. Perhaps it is learning how to move with it.

Learning that relationships do not necessarily end when bodies do.

Learning that memories become conversations we continue in quiet moments.

Learning that love changes form but does not disappear.

Perhaps grief itself is simply love trying to find a new place to live.

Final Reflection

As the film came to an end, I found myself thinking about all the people who have sat beside hospital beds, held trembling hands, or waited through long nights wondering if morning would bring one more day or a final goodbye.

I thought about families struggling to love one another while also struggling with themselves.

I thought about those who whisper, please stay, and those who eventually whisper, it is okay to go.

Perhaps that is what I carried away from this film.

The opposite of grief is not healing.

It is not forgetting.

It is not letting go.

The opposite of grief may simply be to have never loved at all.

And what a tragedy that would be.

Blessings Deirdre