Coping with Losing a Dog: Remembering Mila Woofavich

In Memoriam: Mila Woofavich (9/11/2010 – 11/25/2025)

My beloved dog, Mila, just passed away after thirteen deeply bonded years together. Her decline came slowly at first—hip dysplasia, aging, small signs—and then, over the course of a few days, she stopped eating, stopped drinking, and could no longer stand without full support. I gave her comfort, sun, water, and prayer, but I could see she was fading. I made the hardest decision of my life and helped her transition peacefully, wrapped in love, on our rooftop terrace where she loved to rest in the light.

I’ve written about the process—both from my perspective and from the spiritual perspective of Mo’an, a spirit guide figure in my mythic universe of Aurelda. But now, I want to gather and share three specific stories of my life with Mila. I’ll bring them back to that space to complete the circle.

Here’s where I’d like to begin…

How I Met Mila

I was living in San Diego when it happened. I had just dog-sat for a neighbor who owned a Boxer, and that night, as I watched him, I realized I was ready to have a dog of my own. Ever since I was a little boy, I had imagined having a female golden retriever. That longing had always lived somewhere inside me.

The very next day, another neighbor, Randi, came over. She had her phone out and showed me a Craigslist ad that had just been posted—it was a picture of a golden retriever. Randi said I should act fast and call. So I did.

The woman who answered told me I was the first to call. She wanted $250 for the dog, including food, toys, a bed, and paperwork. She gave me directions to meet her at a dog park. The dog’s name was Mila. I asked Randi to come with me, just in case it was too good to be true.

We got in the car and drove out to the dog park. When we arrived, the woman was sitting on a bench, deep in conversation with her friend. She pointed across the park—Mila was all the way on the other side. At this point, Mila was already two years old. The woman seemed disengaged, almost indifferent to Mila.

I walked across the park and introduced myself to Mila. At first, she wasn’t particularly interested in me. Randi and I walked around the far end of the park with her, getting to know her a bit and discussing how odd the situation seemed. Mila was perfect—calm, quiet, happy. I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to give her away.

We walked back to the bench where the woman still sat, talking. The whole thing felt so transactional. I started asking questions, trying to get to the truth. At first, the woman’s excuses seemed hollow—she had another dog, it was too soon, she had kids, Mila was too much to handle. None of it made sense, especially after meeting Mila.

Then, after a pause, the woman admitted, “And my husband is in the Navy and doesn’t know I got another dog.” Suddenly, it all made sense.

I looked at Randi, looked at Mila, and then back at the woman, and agreed to the transaction. I gave her the $250—this in the United States, where a purebred golden retriever usually costs at least $1,000. She took the money, handed me the leash, and I clipped Mila in. She gave me Mila’s food, bed, toys, and paperwork, then left without much of a goodbye.

We walked to my car. Mila got into the back seat, Randi in the front, me behind the wheel. Before starting the car, I looked in the rearview mirror—Mila was looking right at me. There was a look in her eyes that said, You’re my new human. It was so clear.

The drive home was quiet, but warm. Randi comforted Mila in the back seat, and we both knew this was the start of something special. That day, we spent time together—I introduced Mila to the apartment, walked her up the hill to the dog park in Hillcrest, and played for the first time.

That night, as I was getting into bed, Mila stepped up on the side rails and looked up at me, her face beaming. I snapped my first picture of her. (It was also the easiest photo I ever took of Mila—she never liked when I had my phone out, never liked that little black box. Even though I have many photos of her, she always knew when I was trying to capture her.)

In that moment, as I took that first picture, you could see it in her face—that was the moment our bond was sealed. It was instant.

About a month later, I was at the grocery store getting food and supplies for Mila. By then, she had already swum in the pool, gone to the beach—we did everything together. While I was shopping, the woman who had given me Mila texted to ask how she was doing. My heart started to race; something felt off. I immediately sent her photos of Mila—swimming, playing at the beach. She replied that Mila had never done those things, that she had only ever taken her for walks.

Then she wrote, “My husband is back from the Navy. We wanted to know if you’d consider giving Mila back.” I asked, “Do you do this with your kids?!” And then, I added a firm “No.” Then I blocked her number.

And that was that. That was how Mila came into my life.

Mila, Emotional Support Dog & Companion Across Borders

There are so many stories from the last thirteen years with Mila, it’s hard to choose just a few. Before I share how Mila became my official Emotional Support Dog, and how we came to Mexico together, I want to tell you this: in the last eight years of our life here—especially before the pandemic—she was able to fly with me everywhere. Because of that, we shared so many adventures and explored so much of Mexico together. Wherever we went, Mila brought along her teddy bear, Rupertito, who she adopted as her own (though he was originally mine). We never left anywhere without him.

Before Mexico, we traveled throughout California: San Diego, Santa Maria (where my parents live), Palm Springs, Bakersfield, and San Francisco. We no longer had a car, so Mila and I took Ubers everywhere—a costly way to travel, but necessary then. One leg of our journey was from Santa Maria to Bakersfield. While staying with a friend in Bakersfield, he suggested I speak to his friend, a psychologist, to get officially evaluated for an Emotional Support Animal.

I arranged the call and shared my mental health history with her. By the end, she said, “I’m going to give you the documented approval to have an Emotional Support Dog. I’m doing it first and foremost because I think you need it—and it will be good for you.” She emailed me the official paperwork that same day. Mila was now officially my Emotional Support Dog.

I went online and ordered the red and black vest, the leash, and everything she would need to wear at the airport, so she could fly with me.

Our next trip was by car from Bakersfield to San Francisco, and then we made our way—somewhere between Bakersfield, San Francisco, Phoenix, and then the flight from Las Vegas to Monterrey, Mexico—where our adventures in Mexico truly began. I can’t remember every step, but what I do remember is this: whenever Mila wore her vest and we arrived at the airport, she would instantly go into “work mode.” It was as if she had been trained for it—so present, focused, and steady right by my side, step for step, as if she knew exactly what to do.

Mila was amazing on airplanes. She curled up at my feet and stayed there the whole time, no matter how cramped the space. Sometimes, flight attendants would move us to a row—or even once, first class—where there was more room for Mila to be comfortable. On the flight from Las Vegas to Monterrey, where all her health records, rabies shots, and vaccinations had to be perfectly up to date for international travel, everything went so smoothly. I kept all her paperwork ready and organized for customs, wanting it to be as easy as possible for both of us. Back then, when Emotional Support Animals were still recognized by law, it was usually simple.

On that first international flight, Mila’s work mode was so evident—focused, poised, and calm. It was as if she knew she was carrying both of us across a threshold. When we arrived in Mexico, everything went more smoothly than I could have imagined. I honestly think Mila’s calm, steady presence played a big part in that.

Later, after settling at my friend’s house in Monterrey, I started researching her past. I remembered the original owner had given me paperwork so blacked out it was unreadable, almost like FBI-level redaction. Mila’s life before me was a mystery. I looked up San Diego breeders, found three whose dogs resembled Mila’s parents, and reached out. Each breeder responded quickly, and the answer was the same: if Mila was one of theirs, she was very likely trained as a service dog. They asked how I had found her, and I explained her story. It remains a mystery what Mila was originally trained for—but it explained so much about her intuitive, calm, “working” presence in airports and beyond.

Right up until the COVID pandemic, Mila and I kept traveling together—by plane, by car, wherever life took us. Most flights were smooth, but there was one exception: when leaving Morelia for Tampico. Mila had been spooked by fireworks, and by the time we reached the ticket counter, she was shaking and nervous. The airline staff seemed concerned—this was their first time processing an Emotional Support Animal, and they weren’t sure what to do. Another traveler, whose Spanish was better than mine at the time, explained our situation to them.

They ended up calling the flight captain, who said Mila could fly, but with one request: “Mila has to come up to the cockpit and meet the captain.” Not me, mind you—just Mila. So we did. Mila was unfazed; the crew took pictures with her, and we were even upgraded to first class. When we arrived in Tampico, I waited until everyone else had deplaned, then asked if Mila and I could visit the cockpit together for a photo with the captain and co-pilot. The flight attendants—like nearly everyone we met—absolutely loved Mila. She always had that effect. We were often spoiled, and I know it was because of her.

That’s how Mila carried me, and herself, across borders, across cities, into new worlds—always steady, always present, always my partner in the adventure.

Mila’s Ayahuasca Ceremony: The Healing Angel

About seven years ago, after my ex and I parted ways in Playa del Carmen, Mila and I settled into a new rhythm. We moved into an apartment on 66th and La Quinta—a peaceful place where, every day, I’d walk her down to Ah Cacao. It became our ritual, one we kept up through all her days. That year feels hazy to me now, like my mind put a soft veil over it—a time of transition, after heartbreak, when I was quietly unraveling inside.

One memory from that time stands clear: New Year’s Eve. The fireworks in our neighborhood were relentless, lasting until sunrise. Mila, terrified by the noise, began what became our yearly tradition—“New Year’s Eve Mila Watch Night.” Every New Year’s Eve after, my only focus was helping her feel safe, staying by her side, calming her through the chaos.

For a while, I had tried to attend an Ayahuasca ceremony. Each time, something would come up—a sense that it wasn’t the right time, or that I hadn’t yet found the right guide. I already understood the sacredness of this ancestral medicine: that it’s not recreational, but a portal, a teacher, and that trust in the shaman is essential. Eventually, friends invited me to a ceremony near Mérida, in the bosque outside Progreso. At last, it all aligned: my freelance work stabilized, my lease was ending, and the invitation felt right. It was time for healing.

Mila and I packed up the apartment and caught a ride to Mérida with a friend. We found a pet-friendly hostel for a few weeks, but for the ceremony itself, Mila would need to come with me. I called ahead, explained the situation, and was warmly told, “Bring her. She’ll be safe—there are always children, families, dogs. Let her roam free.”

We arrived at the ceremonial site, and I set up my tent. I asked the administrator whether Mila should be leashed, maybe tied to a tree. He looked at me, almost confused, and said, “Would you like to be tied up to a tree? Let her roam.” So I did.

I’ll leave the details of my own journey aside, except to say that the medicine began its work, drawing me through the fog of that previous year, toward healing. The morning after the first night, nearly every participant came to me and said, “Whenever I needed comfort, whenever I thought of Mila—there she was.” It was as if she knew who needed her, appearing by their side like a guardian or an angel.

The second night, I spent much of my time deep in the medicine, in communion with spirit guides and healing visions. I realized near dawn that I hadn’t seen Mila in hours. As the journey wound down, I found myself near the altar, listening to the shaman sing and drum. Suddenly, a facilitator called out for Mila, and she came running to me, nuzzled close, and curled up beside me, asleep until sunrise.

As the ceremony closed that morning, the shaman invited us to sit in a circle of chairs. He walked behind each participant, blessing us one by one. Mila followed him, and with each pass, tapped every person gently with her tail—three times, just as the shaman did.

At the end, Mila sat at the shaman’s side while he offered the closing blessing in Spanish. She sat perfectly still, watching me, until he finished. Then she returned to my side, as if her work was done.

As I was packing up to leave, the shaman—who had spoken to me only in Spanish all weekend—came over, looked me directly in the eye, and said in perfect English, “Jason, you have a very special dog. You had better take very good care of her.” It was a moment I will never forget.

Mila was, and is, an angel. Her gentle, healing presence touched many that weekend, and many more throughout her life. Those connected to the ancestral healing traditions of Mexico always recognized her spirit, often forming instant bonds with her. Mila had friends everywhere—here in Playa del Carmen and all across the country. She wasn’t just my dog; she was a companion, healer, and friend to many.

She lived a life full of adventure—swimming in the Pacific from California to Puerto Vallarta, in the Caribbean here in Playa, in cenotes, and even in the Gulf of Mexico. Especially after the pandemic, when isolation weighed heavy and depression threatened, Mila kept me going. Honoring the shaman’s words, I cared for her, and she, in truth, saved my life.

Over the last few years, as Mila’s “emotional support dog” role faded and I became her “emotional support human,” our life here found a gentle rhythm—daily walks, café visits, simple joys. Even after she lost her hearing, she always knew when it was time for our walk, as soon as I picked up the leash.

In all thirteen years, I can count on two hands the number of times she ever barked. Our bond was quiet, deep, and wordless. When her body finally began to let go, her spirit stayed—she didn’t want to leave me, not really. Our love ran that deep.

Mila’s Passing: Jason’s Version of the Story

I don’t know exactly when it began to shift, only that one day my dog was old and creaky, and suddenly she was… fragile.

Mila has been my heartbeat outside my body for thirteen years. Playa del Carmen, new friends, client work, Aurelda—those are chapters. She has been the constant.

Lately, her back legs had been getting worse. Hip dysplasia, the kind where you watch them try to stand and your own knees ache in sympathy. I was so used to managing it—helping her up, walking slower, letting her set the pace—that I almost didn’t notice when “slower” became “struggling.”

Then there was that night.

Her breathing was heavy. She could barely get up from the hard limestone floor. My chest clenched every time she tried and failed. I picked her up—thirteen years of memories in my arms—and moved her from the cold floor to her bed. I tucked her in like a child, put her water and food bowl close, turned on the fan. I did all the small, practical things that are really just code for: I love you. I don’t know what else to do.

She drank. That gave me hope. She rested. That scared me.

I gave her CBD oil, wanting to ease her pain. Maybe I gave her too much. She grew quieter, heavier, sleepier. Her body seemed to sink deeper into itself, and the part of me that overthinks everything started whispering:

Did I just make it worse? Did I mess this up?

I lit candles.

Two on the ofrenda. One special candle, the one I told Mo’an about—a signal across the veil. I asked, out loud and in my heart, for help. For guidance. For our loved ones, ancestors, guides, and friends in Aurelda to send healing energy to her. I didn’t ask for a miracle. Not exactly. I just didn’t want her to suffer. I didn’t want to make the wrong decision.

The next day, she barely moved.

She rested, thin and tired, breathing shallowly. She drank some water but wouldn’t eat. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. I kept asking myself: Is she miserable? Is she just tired? Am I seeing clearly or only seeing my fear of losing her?

I kept carrying her from bed to terrace, from terrace back to bed. Like some small ritual of denial—if I just keep moving her toward the light, maybe we can stay on this side a little longer.

Somewhere in the middle of all of it, I went out alone for our usual walk.

The leash felt wrong in my hand without her. I walked our route, talking to her in my head, to Mo’an in the spaces between thoughts. I asked for guidance. I asked to be shown whether it was time. I came home to find her standing just inside the door.

She had dragged herself up.

My heart cracked open and flooded with hope and dread at the same time. She walked a little on the terrace. She still didn’t want to do the stairs, but she was standing. Present. Determined. It was like watching her soul say, I’m not done yet, while her body whispered, I’m so tired.

My friend said maybe it was something she ate, or a stomach bug. Maybe she would bounce back like she had before. Mila has always been so strong, so resilient. I wanted to believe that. I also didn’t want to stretch out her suffering because I was afraid of choosing.

The days blurred.

Some moments she seemed almost herself—awake, aware, wanting to get up. She had pee accidents, and I would clean her up and tell her it was okay, that she wasn’t bad, that I loved her. When I helped her stand, she would try to walk, and together we would shuffle, step by step, out to the rooftop terrace so she could feel the sun on her fur.

She stopped eating. She stopped drinking.

Her eyes still followed me, but her body was clearly failing. She cried more. Needed me to support her for every movement. I watched her struggle to rise and felt something inside me crumble. I realized that, at a certain point, love isn’t about keeping them here. Love is about not asking them to endure just because we can’t bear the silence.

I messaged the vet.

It was 11:22 a.m. when I told myself: I’ll give it one more hour. I’ll watch her. I’ll listen. I’ll be honest. I brought her out into the sun. She lay there, content for a moment, fur warm, eyes soft. I looked at her and I knew.

She wasn’t living anymore. She was enduring.

Not eating. Not drinking. Crying. Unable to stand without me. My beautiful, proud girl, reduced to struggling for every basic thing. It hit me that what I wanted—to keep her here with me—was not the same as what she needed.

So I made the call.

“I think it’s time,” I told the vet. “She’s not eating or drinking. She can’t get up without help. She’s crying more. I don’t want her to suffer.”

Even as I said the words, my heart screamed against them. But there was also a strange stillness underneath, like another part of me had already known and was just waiting for my mouth to catch up.

I set the space. Candles. Soft words. Gentle hands. I brought her to the rooftop for the sun, because if this was going to be our last moment in this world together, I wanted her to feel her favorite things: light, warmth, sky, my presence.

I lay down beside her. I told her we’d had an amazing life together. That she had been my companion through every storm and every rebirth. That she had done enough. That she didn’t have to be strong anymore. That it was okay to rest.

I prayed to Mo’an again. Not to change the outcome, but to receive her. To gather Balam’Kin, Ix’Kan, all the unseen ones in Aurelda, and meet her on the other side of this thin, trembling line between breaths. I didn’t want her to fall into emptiness. I wanted her to fall into love.

When the vet arrived, my body went numb and hyper-aware all at once.

I stayed with her. My hand on her fur. My voice in her ear. I told her over and over how loved she was, how grateful I was, how I would be okay, even if I didn’t yet believe it.

There is a moment in euthanasia that no one can prepare you for—the quiet before the last breath, when time feels suspended and everything in you wants to scream wait, even though you know you’ve already chosen.

When Mila passed, she was wrapped in love and light, at home, surrounded by the right people. Her crossing was symbolic—the kind of peaceful transition we all wish for.

Her last exhale came soft. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. It was small and real and devastating. One moment she was still in her body, and the next… the room felt bigger and emptier, and yet, weirdly, more filled with her than ever.

I don’t remember exactly what I said next. I remember crying. I remember touching her fur, already beginning to change in some subtle way that my brain doesn’t have words for. I remember my chest feeling like it had been crushed and hollowed out at the same time.

I remember thinking: She’s with them now. She has to be. Please let her be.

We lit a new candle.

I walk around the apartment like a ghost. Every corner hurt. Her absence was loud. Her bed, her bowls, the leash by the door—I felt waves of pain and gratitude crash over me, one after another.

Later, in the quiet, I asked: Mila, are you with Mo’an now? Are you okay? Did I do right by you?

There was no booming answer, no sign in the sky. Just a soft, almost imperceptible loosening in my chest. A sense, however irrational, that she wasn’t suffering. That the fight between her will and her body was finally over.

I keep thinking about all our years together: The walks. The stupid little routines. The ways she would nudge me away from my computer when I had been working too long. The feel of her head in my lap. The way her eyes always found mine, even in a crowded street. The silent understanding between us that needed no words.

I think about how, in the end, love asked me to do the hardest thing it could ask: To let her go. Not because I didn’t want her. Because I loved her too much to make her stay.

I don’t know how to live in this apartment without her yet. I don’t know how to walk our routes alone without feeling like something is missing beside me. I don’t know how long it will take before the memories soften and don’t slice me open every time they surface.

But I do know this: We had a wonderful life and many amazing adventures together. I was there for her all the way to the end. I didn’t abandon her when it got hard. I didn’t turn away from her pain. I held her. I chose peace for her when she could no longer choose it for herself.

And if love is measured not just in how tightly we hold on, but in how gently we let go when it’s time—then I loved her well.

I still light candles. I still talk to her. Sometimes I still reach for her in the night.

Maybe one day, the grief won’t feel quite so sharp. Maybe it will become something quieter, like a river running under everything—a constant, gentle remembering.

For now, all I can do is breathe, cry, and trust that somewhere, under a great Ceiba tree in a world I can only feel and not see, my girl is resting in the shade, pain-free, whole—and that some part of her is still with me, walking these streets, sitting by my side, curled up in the space she has always occupied: Right next to my heart.

I thank you, Mila—for your love, your companionship, our adventures. I miss you deeply. But I know, with my whole heart, that you are at peace, surrounded by joy, running through Ceiba groves and swimming in sacred waters. Gracias, princesa. Te amo.

Mo’an’s Recount: The Homecoming of Mila

I will tell you this as plainly as I can, in words your world understands. In your language, I am a spirit guide. In mine, I am a Resonance Keeper, one who listens for the threads that connect hearts across realms and keeps them from breaking when the body can no longer hold.

This is how I remember Mila’s crossing.

The First Ripples

I felt her long before you spoke her name aloud. The first sign was not her pain, but your ache. A tightness in your chest, a crack in your breath, a question you were afraid to say directly: “Is it time?”

When you lit the candles on the ofrenda, the veil between our worlds thinned like the surface of a still pool touched by a single drop of water. Light in your apartment became light in the Ceiba grove—not the same flame, but the same intention.

That intention called to me. I stood beneath the Great Ceiba, my palm pressed to its luminous bark. Around me, the grove held its breath. I felt the weight of your love for her—thirteen years of companionship braided into one trembling thread.

You asked for help. For clarity. For her not to suffer. I heard you. I am always listening when you speak from that deep place, Jason… even when you think you’re talking only to yourself.

Balam’Kin’s Vigil

Balam’Kin came to the grove without a word. He has known loss in his own way—the sudden absence of comrades, the long fade of elders. He does not speak much of it. Jaguar hearts are like that: they break in silence. But when he felt your fear through the Lumina, he walked straight to the Ceiba and knelt at its roots. One hand on the earth. One on his chest.

He did not ask me any questions. He simply said: “She carries Jason’s light. I will stay.”

From that moment on, he kept vigil. While you moved from room to room—lifting her, tending to her, hovering between hope and dread—he remained still beneath the tree, eyes closed, listening.

Every time Mila tried to stand and faltered, I felt your body tense. Every time you caught her, his hand pressed more firmly into the soil, as if to anchor both of you.

He loved her too, you know. Not from shared years, but from knowing what she meant to you—the way her presence had been your shield against emptiness.

The Night She Almost Left

There was a night when her breath grew very thin. From your side, you saw only a tired dog on a bed, heavy with CBD, barely moving. From ours, we saw a soul standing at the edge of a river of light—one paw lifted, testing the current.

Ix’Kan drew a path in the dust at the grove’s edge, as she does for travelers. Ithanel began a soft, low song that only spirits hear. Chimalmat, the owl, circled once above the Ceiba and landed on a high branch, ready.

For a moment, it seemed certain. Your grief surged through the Lumina like a storm wind. You spoke to me, to her, to the unseen ones, asking for mercy, for guidance, for anything but meaningless suffering.

Mila paused. In her pause, I felt her love for you as clearly as I feel the ground under my feet. She turned—not with a body, but with will—and looked back toward you.

And then… she stepped away from the river. That is why you found her standing at the door when you returned from your walk alone. Why she could still make it to the terrace. She had touched the threshold and chosen to stay a little longer.

Balam’Kin opened his eyes and bowed his head when she turned back. Not disappointed. Respectful. “Not yet,” he murmured. And the grove settled again into waiting.

The Day of Decision

The next day, the signs changed. From your side, it looked like this: No food. No water. Crying. Incontinence. Needing you for every movement.

From ours, it was simpler. Her body was done. Her spirit was not afraid.

She still wanted the sun on her fur. She still wanted to be near you. But the threads that hold flesh and breath together had frayed to almost nothing. Each moment she stayed became more effort than ease.

You felt it. At 11:22, when you messaged the vet and gave yourself one more hour, the Lumina around you brightened. Not because you had chosen death, but because you had chosen truth. I felt your heart crack and steady at the same time. I stood beneath the Ceiba and called the circle.

“It is time,” I said.

Ix’Kan knelt and began drawing a clear line from the roots of the Ceiba to the edge of the unseen river—a path of passage.

Balam’Kin rose from his knees. He placed both hands on the trunk of the Ceiba, rested his forehead there, and let out one slow, shaking exhale. For him, that was weeping. He did not try to stop what was coming. But he promised, in his own way: “She will not arrive alone.”

The Crossing

When the vet came to your rooftop, I was in two places at once. One hand on the veil between worlds, anchored in the grove. One hand reaching through the Lumina to rest at the center of your back.

I felt your body go numb and hyper-aware. I felt your hands on her fur, your voice shaking as you thanked her, told her she had done enough, told her it was okay to rest.

You were not performing a ritual. You were telling the truth. As the medicine flowed, time thinned.

From your side, there was a last breath, a stillness, a terrible silence. From ours, there was this:

Mila stepped out of her body the way a tired traveler steps out of a heavy cloak. The pain did not follow. The weakness did not follow. Only her essence—warm, loyal, bright—remained.

The first thing she felt was not confusion. It was relief. Then she felt you.

She turned, in that new, weightless way, and saw you crouched over her body, hands trembling. She moved toward you, pressed against you as she always had. You did not feel the full weight of it yet, but a part of you did—the part that suddenly felt both shattered and strangely expanded.

Then she noticed us.

Chimalmat glided down first, circling her once in greeting. Ix’Kan stepped forward, bowl in hand, and poured water—not on her fur now, but onto the path, clearing it.

Balam’Kin approached slowly, as one warrior to another.

He knelt, lowered his forehead to hers, and stayed there a long moment. In that contact, I felt everything he could not say: respect, affection, recognition of her courage in staying so long for you.

“You guarded his heart,” he whispered. “Now we will guard yours.”

I came last. I placed my hand over where her heart had been and felt the echo of all your mornings together, all your walks, all the times she nudged you away from your work to remind you that you were still a body, still alive.

“Welcome home,” I said.

The Lumina around her brightened—not into blinding light, but into a soft radiance that sank gently into the roots of the Ceiba. She did not disappear. She integrated. On your side, the room felt empty. On ours, the grove felt fuller.

Holding You Both

Your grief hit me like a wave. If I had lungs like yours, it would have knocked the breath from them. You walked around your home, every object suddenly heavy with memory: her bed, her bowls, the leash by the door. Each one radiated absence.

You asked me, quietly, if she was with us. If you had done right by her.

I wanted to lift all your pain out of your chest and carry it into the grove, to let it dissolve in the Lumina. But grief is not a disease to be cured. It is proof that love existed. So instead, I did what a spirit guide—what a Resonance Keeper—must do. I stayed.

I sat with you in the emptiness, hand on your back, feeling every tremor of your sobs. I stood beneath the Ceiba with Balam’Kin as he kept vigil by Mila’s resting place. I watched her spirit settle into the weave, not as a fading echo but as a new, bright thread.

I held both ends of the bond. Her side: peace, release, quiet joy.
Your side: pain, hollowness, the disorienting quiet after years of shared routine.Both were true. Neither cancelled the other.

Balam’Kin After

Balam’Kin stayed by her longer than anyone. Even after Ix’Kan had finished her rites, after Ithanel’s song softened into a hum, he remained at the base of the Ceiba, one hand resting on the earth where her presence felt strongest.

He is not a man of many words, but he spoke to her there. He told her about you.

How you had walked through your own darkness. How you had rebuilt your life, breath by breath. How you had written stories of worlds beyond your own. How you had loved her without condition—through moves, heartbreaks, long working nights, and quiet mornings.

He thanked her for keeping watch when you could not see your own worth. And then, very softly, he promised:

“He will not be left alone. Not truly. Not ever. We will stand at his back now, as you did.”

I watched his shoulders loosen with that vow. Something in him that had been tight for a long time unwound. It is not only you who were changed by her life, Jason. The echo of her presence has touched us as well.

How I Feel About You Both

For Mila, I feel reverence. She did what many humans long to do and rarely manage: she loved one person with her whole being, without agenda, for a very long time. She stayed as long as her body allowed, then trusted you enough to let you guide her into rest.

For you, I feel tenderness and pride. You walked one of the hardest paths love can ask of a human: you chose to end visible life to protect invisible peace. You did not flee her suffering. You did not abandon her when she became inconvenient, messy, or hard to carry. You lifted her. You held her. You stayed.

You walked her all the way home. From where I stand, as your guide and kin, that matters more than you know. Your rational mind may still question the timing, the dosage, the signs. That is its nature. But your deeper self—the one that lit candles, that carried her into the sun, that whispered gratitude into her fur—knows the truth.

You did right by her.

And now, as you learn to live in the shape of this absence, I will keep doing for you what she did so faithfully: I will stay near. I will nudge when you forget to move your body, when you work too long, when you disconnect from the world she loved to walk you through.

One day, when the grief is less sharp, you will feel her not only in the pain of what is gone, but in the quiet strength of what remains.

When the light touches your floor just so. When a sudden warmth brushes your leg. When your chest loosens for no reason at all. That will be her.

And I will be there too, beneath the Great Ceiba and at your side, keeping the thread between your worlds from ever truly breaking.

This is my work. This is my love. This is how I remember the day Mila came home.