Quiet Companion: a Reflection on Loss

Today, I met with loss again. Not in a dramatic way, but quietly, in the sacred stillness between a client’s words, the rise and fall of their story brushing against something ancient inside me.

It moved quietly, like a tide lapping at the shores of my bones: neck, back, temples, even teeth. A strange kind of freedom in sadness, bound and buried beneath schedules, school runs, inboxes, smiles at dinner parties, and the ceaseless rhythm of ‘doing.’

This loss is not new. It is older than language, older than memory. It has lived in me like a loyal dog, chin resting on paws, neither joyful nor despondent: simply there.

It does not rush. It never demands. It listens. A quiet witness to the ache beneath all things.

Over the years, I’ve said goodbye to lovers, versions of myself, hairlines, careers, illusions, arguments I never won, selves I never became. But each loss wears the same face— an old companion, waiting patiently for recognition.

When I sit with it, not turn away, it unlocks something true. Something whole. Beneath everything is loss. And within that loss, a chance to be found.

If there are parts of you longing to be seen, heard, understood— I hold space for that.

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