This week has been full of change—messy, exciting, and deeply bittersweet. I just moved into the Pathways building, and for the first time since coming back to school, I’ll be heading to on-campus classes next week. Tonight is my first night in my new bed, in my very own space—well, our space. My corgi, who struts around in her little pearl necklace like the queen she knows she is, has already claimed the bed. She stretches out sideways with royal authority, leaving me balancing on the edge like one of her humble subjects.
Unpacking has turned into a royal inspection. I start with one box at a time, then move through several, with Her Majesty supervising every step—nose in packing paper, paws in boxes, planting herself directly on top of whatever I’m trying to organize. Every squeak of tape is her cue to check my progress, making sure the kingdom is coming together properly.
But beneath the humor and chaos is a heavier truth: this move wouldn’t have happened if my boy hadn’t passed. He was my first dog, my only dog for years, and the steady heartbeat of my adult life. Losing him cracked something open in me. The grief was sharp and consuming, but it also made me realize I needed a new chapter, a fresh start. Moving here is part of that. It feels strange to be in a space he’ll never see, yet somehow his absence is what brought me here.
Now, it’s just me and my corgi queen, figuring it out together. Between the boxes, the memories, and the nightly bed battles, this little space is already becoming a sanctuary—a place to grieve, to rebuild, and to grow.
