2025: a year that made me face something I wish I hadn’t

Originally published in December 2025 This year has been…well, let’s call it tough. It tested me in every way I can possibly imagine; it made me question life decisions; and, ultimately, it made me rethink me. And while each and every one of those challenges deserves its own space, there’s one that brings me back to writing.

Writing has always been something I cherish, something that never fails to make all the noise go away. But, at the same time, something that I’ve cast into oblivion, mostly because it makes me face things I normally avoid. Something that brings all those raw emotions to the forefront.

So, in a way, I’m going back to my roots, my writing roots, in the hope that I close this challenged-filled year by letting the words give me some kind of closure. A way to give the new year space. A way to deal with something I’ve avoided: the hardest thing of all.

For a reason that will never make sense to me, the universe decided that—in the midst of so much chaos in my head and around, in the middle of so many questions and doubt—it was the perfect time to take away the one being holding me together. The one being that understood me more than I understood myself. The one being that made me get up on the hard days. This year, the universe decided I should face one of the biggest things I think a person can deal with: grieving for your soul dog.

September 30, 2025. That day will forever be in my memory, engraved in my brain in a way that hurts. That day, my soul dog crossed the rainbow bridge. That day, my little “Oscar-the-grouch” went to a realm where I can’t see or touch him. That day, my heart broke.

His actual name was Einstein Cicerón. “Einstein” was because his messy hair made him look like Einstein’s famous picture. Cicerón was just because I was feeling creative that day. But I never really called him that. His name quickly became “Motas” because his hair was motoso.

Motas was my everything dog. My better half. He was also, in a lot of ways, my twin. That’s probably why he understood me so well: he wasn’t a people person; he didn’t like the “lovey-dovey” kind of love; and he preferred to show his love by simply being there.

That day, the one I’d feared but imagined would occur much later in his and my life, I looked into his eyes, and when I knew he’d left, I screamed. I felt destroyed and perhaps not wanting, or even willing, to continue on a path where I’d have to get used to looking for him and not finding him. Knowing that my life would no longer include his physical presence. Knowing that when I opened the door to let him into my room, he wouldn’t be there. Knowing that I would no longer have my faithful nurse and mental health coach. Knowing that I wouldn’t have his eyes pierce my soul and calm me down. Knowing that it wasn’t a nightmare and that, from now on, I would have to wake up without him next to me.

Motes really was my everything. When I was happy, he was there. When I was sad, he was there. When I was sick, he was there. He was there for everything and anything. And not in a superficial way. In a very genuine, real, and powerful way. I didn’t need to speak. I didn’t need to cry. I didn’t need to laugh. I didn’t even need to scream. He knew it all: the good, the bad, and everything in between. He knew, simply put, my true feelings, the ones I didn’t even mean or want to show. He knew my truest and most genuine self.

He wasn’t my first or only puppy. And while I love every single one of my babies—every animal in our farm, from the largest horse to the smallest chicken—with every part of my heart, Motes had a special place. Motes has a special place. Something about the way he and I connected was different. It’s something that an endless number of words could never express. Something that a detailed explanation would never capture. Something that I can only slightly allude to by calling him my soul dog.

The process of missing him, of turning and not finding him, has been soul-crushing. It has meant having to deal with an enormous silence left behind by such a big presence. Finding comfort in memories when, as humans, we value physical presence. Accepting that some days are easier, while others are devastating. Learning to live on without moving on. I’ll never move on. And I’m sure I’ll love many more animals with everything I have to give them, but no one or nothing will ever fill the hole left behind by my Motes.

2025, let’s be honest, I wish I could forget you. I wish I could press the reset button and start this year all over again. But more than the entire year, I want to wake up hoping September 30 never happened. It did, though. And as I start the new year—wishing with all my soul that it will be different, that it will bring opportunities in all the places where 2025 brought challenges—I hope that missing Motes will become a little easier. Hoping that everything I promised him I would do in his honor, I will make a reality. Wishing, more than anything, that I will make his life count.

Motes, 2026 is for you!