I still talk to my dog out loud

I came downstairs the other morning and said "hi, baby" to an empty kitchen. Same voice I used every morning for thirteen years. Same spot on the floor where she used to be waiting. The words were out of my mouth before I even noticed I was saying them.

I froze for a second. Then I kept going. Made my coffee. Told her it was supposed to rain later. Asked if she wanted to go outside — which, obviously, she didn't, because she wasn't there.

If you had watched this happen, you might have thought something was wrong with me. For a long time, I thought something was wrong with me too.

It's not a lapse. It's a habit of love.

Here's the thing I didn't understand at first: for thirteen years, my voice was half of a conversation she was always having back with me. Not in words. In ear tilts, in tail thumps, in the way she'd look up from wherever she was lying when I said her name. That back-and-forth was wired so deep into my day that her death didn't unwire it. It just removed the other end.

So when I narrate the weather to an empty room, or tell her I'm heading to the store, or say "excuse me, ma'am" as I step over the place on the rug where she used to sprawl — that isn't me losing my grip. That's thirteen years of muscle memory doing exactly what it was built to do.

The weirdest part is how normal it feels

I expected grief to feel dramatic. Crying in the shower. Sitting in her empty bed. Those happened too. But the parts that surprised me are the small, steady ones: reaching down to pet her when I sit on the couch and finding air. Saying "you want to come?" as I grab my keys. Turning to tell her something funny before I remember.

These aren't breakdowns. They're just — the shape of my life, still holding the space she used to fill. It's the most ordinary kind of heartbreak there is. And it's relentless in a way nobody warned me about.

I stopped trying to catch myself

For a while I'd feel embarrassed when I noticed I was doing it. Like I'd been caught being ridiculous. I'd clip the sentence short. Swallow the "good girl." Pretend I hadn't just asked the ceiling if she wanted a treat.

But cutting myself off felt worse than the thing I was cutting off. It felt like I was apologizing for her. Like I was agreeing that she wasn't allowed to exist in my day anymore. And I'm not ready to agree to that. I don't know if I ever will be.

So now I let the sentence finish. I tell the empty kitchen good morning. I ask the couch if she's comfortable. If someone hears me, they hear me. I've decided she's worth sounding a little strange for.

If you do this too

You're not confused about what happened. You know they're gone. You haven't lost the plot. You are just still holding up your side of a conversation that went on every single day for years, and the conversation doesn't stop the moment the other voice does. That's not a symptom. That's a bond.

Some people will tell you this is a stage, like you're supposed to grow out of it. Maybe you will. Maybe the "good mornings" will get quieter. Maybe they won't. Either way is fine. There is no finish line here where you stop loving them out loud.

When it's more than talking

Talking to a pet who's gone is not, on its own, a sign that something is wrong. Most people who've loved an animal deeply do it. But grief can also get heavy in ways that aren't just about missing them — ways that start pulling you under. If you're struggling to eat, to sleep, to get through the day, or if you're having thoughts of hurting yourself, please reach out to someone. A grief counselor. A pet loss support line. A friend. You don't have to carry this alone.

In the US: the ASPCA Pet Loss Hotline is 877-474-3310. For mental health crisis support, call or text 988 any time, day or night.

What I've come to believe

The things we say to them when no one else is around — the nicknames, the check-ins, the narrated mornings — those were never just for them. They were the texture of how we loved them. And that texture doesn't vanish just because they did.

If saying her name out loud to an empty room is what keeps her close, I'm going to keep saying it. That's not me being unwell. That's me still being hers.

— Meagan, founder of RememberMyPet.ai