One Year Without Him: What My Dog Taught Me About Grief, Burnout, and Finally Choosing Myself

I just stepped off the mat—literally dripping sweat—after teaching my first Vinyasa class back at the studio that used to own my calendar four (sometimes five) days a week. Same wood floors, same playlist, same mirror line.

But I’m not the same person who taught here a year ago. That girl was running on fumes and calling it “hustle.”

Today marks one year since my dog Max died. Thirteen years together—half my entire life—ended with one emergency phone call while I was subbing a double here. I remember the high of a packed room, brand-new students, killer sequencing… and then the sidewalk outside, my dad’s voice on speaker telling me to get to the Hospital on the Cape to say goodbye.

Time fractured. The world tilted.

I thought grief would be a clean line: cry, take a week off, bounce back.

Instead, the universe handed me a syllabus I never asked for.

Two more childhood dogs gone within five months.

A brand-new puppy.

A dream apartment I can’t afford to enjoy.

My first niece.

500+ yoga classes taught in 2025.

Five studios. Pilates cert. Europe. Festivals. Friend-flips.

And a back injury that parked me on the couch like a cautionary tale.

I kept sprinting because stopping felt like betrayal.

More classes. More modalities. More “yes.”

Sixteen classes a week, on average.

I measured my worth in occupancy rates and Instagram story views.

My body finally filed a complaint I couldn’t ignore.

One sacrum pop during a demo—then weeks of not being able to stand up from the couch without crying. I couldn’t walk my new puppy. Couldn’t demo child’s pose.

I lost my income, my identity, my freedom—because I gave them away for free.

The universe wasn’t subtle.

After the back blowout came a facial steamer accident that left me with a polka-dot burn down my legs—because I was too exhausted to notice the $10 Walgreens contraption wasn’t functioning properly.

Another month on the bench.

So here I am—same corner of the studio, first playlist cued—and I finally get it:

Max’s whole life fit inside thirteen of my years.

He never worried about being productive.

He lived at full volume—every bone, every beach run, every snore on my pillow.

He didn’t wait to be useful to deserve rest.

I’m done monetizing every breath.

I dropped two studios.

I said no to sub requests.

I capped my weekly classes to a number that lets me walk my dog without checking the time.

I still love this community. Holding space is my dharma.

But the cup has to be full first—not just half enough to get through the next cue.

If you’re scrolling while your lower back aches, your calendar looks like a game of Tetris, or you can’t remember why you started teaching in the first place—this is your sign.

Grief isn’t a detour from the grind.

It’s a redirect.

Slow down before the universe slows you.

One life. One body. One timeline that isn’t evenly paced—no matter how good you are at sun salutations.

Fill your own cup like it’s the only one that matters.

Because it is.

Max already knew.

I’m just catching up.

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