Goodbye Dusty, Hello Grief

The motivation behind creating this blog was prompted by surprising insights after a horse-riding accident forced me to actively end my “horse-focused” lifestyle.

I was reluctant about when to share it. I wondered if I should wait for things to feel right, to know my voice better, or to understand the messages I hoped to convey. Ironically, three years later, I'm still figuring all that out, and thinking it may be that there is no specific destination when we "know" the things we hope to uncover after a significant event.

It seems the quest for "knowing" is an ongoing and ever-changing journey.

Then, shortly after setting it up, my last beloved and retired horse, Dusty, passed away. It was not entirely a surprise, although it hit me quite hard.

Another loss.

And a final one.

My last horse…. gone.

I haven’t fully processed it yet. It will be a year in a few weeks.

Once we made the monumental move from north to south in 2021, a lot of “unfair” things seemed to happen. I felt I was navigating nonstop loss.

You know those rides you regret taking at the carnival? The ones that look fun until you get on and the ride starts. You’re suddenly aware that you hate it and want off immediately. But you can’t get off; you’re strapped in, stuck. That’s what moving to Florida from New Hampshire felt like. Losing Dusty was just another insult upon other insults that felt relentless since I pulled out of the driveway from my NH farm.

Cue my alternate and more reasonable “Voice Number Two.” The voice that hovers on the sidelines, listening to me whine about how tough my life is, then taps me gently on the shoulder until I pay attention.

“First-world problems,” it says, smiling at me.

Which is painfully true.

I’m so sad my beloved Dusty is gone. But then, I must remember how lucky I was to have had any horses at all.

It’s not like a family member is battling for their life. No one I know has been maimed, and a fire hasn’t destroyed my home. There is undoubtedly MUCH worse going on in the world.

But still. Dusty is gone. My sweet Dusty-Do. Gone.

He was the one being with whom I could spend time and be guaranteed to feel better. I would wrap my arms around him, feel his warm neck soften into me, and know he loved me like I loved him. Unconditionally. Scratching his belly and seeing him stretch his head straight out, lips curled, made me laugh out loud every time. Sometimes, he’d lift one leg way up high to show me where to scratch next.

He was such a good boy. SUCH a good boy.

I’m glad he didn’t suffer. But I’m sad our lives went the way they did. I’m sad he wasn’t in my backyard those last two years. I’m sad I wasn’t part of his everyday until his last.

The truth, however, is he was none the worse for any of what I feel sad about. He had girlfriends, sunshine, and a giant grass paddock with buddies at night. He had other people who loved him dearly and doted on him daily. Little kids were always running around him, squealing and loving on him. Oh, how he loved little kids.

Dusty had a GRAND final year.

There is much comfort in that.

So, what do I do with my grief? With this tense anger I feel? With the blankness? With this weird mix of emotions?

Here’s what I do. Or at least what I try to do.

I pause.

I give my feelings space, let them be what they are, and try to honor their role, while simultaneously focusing my energy on things I know are healthy.

Things like a good night’s sleep. Prayer. Exercise. Good food. Mindless sitcoms at night if I feel like tuning out. Podcasts that uplift or educate me. Blasting music while I drive or bounce on my rebounder. Crying when I have to. Getting up and moving to avoid becoming stagnant.

I’m proud of myself for spending time on at least some of these things.

I focus on continuing to lose weight and gain faith. I use a prayer app called Hallow daily, which helps keep my spirituality in the forefront. It resets my thoughts for long periods of time, sometimes all day. I use my rebounder almost every day, along with potentially dangerously but invigorating loud music. I stay mindful of what I eat, track my food using an app, and strive to keep making good choices.

I slip up, for sure. But I give myself grace when I do—remembering the big picture.

I have to walk, or sometimes sprint, away from situations that create unhealthy tension.

However, overcoming difficulties is not always immediately possible, as we all know. Sometimes, if things escalate, such as heated conversations, technical problems, or unending phone-prompt loops, I can internally accelerate from 0 to 60 in seconds if I don't, or can't, remove myself from the cause of the stress. Which is not pretty.

In those times, I express my remorse and make the proper amends, give myself some grace, and do my best to let it pass like water under a bridge.

I warn loved ones that I may be a loose cannon on some days. It seems that losing Dusty triggered a snowball effect, reliving every loss from the past few years. This “grief snowball” plummets down the hills of my everyday when it's set off, flattening any and everything in its path.

Grief is complicated. I know mine is not just about losing Dusty. It is cumulative grief. It’s grief for the loss of other loved ones passed, losing a lifestyle I loved that I thought I’d be embracing forever, leaving the farm and home we built and cherished, missing the area I grew up and lived for decades, the people I left behind, and the years that are now long behind me. It can get pretty heavy.

I found some interesting information when researching grief - the “three C’s” of grief.

The 3 C's of Grief: Insights for Healing and Understanding

Choose, Connect, and Communicate

There is a feeling of loss of control that typically accompanies grief.

However, we can still CHOOSE. We can choose what is good for us, what we are capable of doing or not doing, and acknowledge the truth of how we feel.

Choosing gives us back control.

Grief makes us want to isolate ourselves when we are in pain. However, it’s essential to keep our CONNECTIONS. As humans, we are wired for connection. We crave it. We need it.

So we need to make sure we stay connected, even if it’s to a lesser degree. Connections help us as we navigate the difficult journey of grief. Let friends visit, meet someone for coffee, and force yourself to see people with whom you can be yourself, even if just for a little while.

Lastly, however hard it may be, it’s essential to COMMUNICATE. Tell others what you do or don’t need, answer when they call to see how you’re doing, yell, scream, or cry with a close friend. DON’T suffer in silence.

I have tucked those tidbits into my pocket to pull out for reference along the road.

In the months since losing Dusty, I take things day by day, keep my eyes on what’s next, and stay in a lane that keeps me focused on healthy habits. I breathe in and out. I remember and let go.

Over and over.

A picture of my Dusty hangs where I can see his sweet face every day. A piece of his braided tail hangs on my mirror so I can run my fingers over it from time to time.

Til we meet again, my sweet boy…….