If you’ve read my blog before, you know a few things about me already:
I love traveling.
I love living in other countries.
And I love doing life with my dog by my side.

Phoenix—my trusty companion—has been with me through places where I didn’t know many people, didn’t speak the language, and didn’t yet feel settled. Before Phoenix, I had another dog who filled the same role. Being a dog parent, especially as a solo traveler, is something I cherish deeply.

When you’re in a new country without much of a community, a dog changes everything. You walk them every day. You smile at neighbors. You meet other dog parents. You feel connected. Loving an animal gives you a sense of belonging that goes beyond words—especially when you don’t have children and you’re far from home.

But loving an animal also means accepting something incredibly painful:
their lives are short.

Yes, dogs might live 12, 15, even 18 years—but compared to our own lives, it’s not long enough. And today, I had to say goodbye.

Phoenix had a tumor that began to affect her daily life. She struggled to walk, stopped eating regularly, and was clearly uncomfortable. Because of where the tumor was located—and because she was 12 years old—surgery was too dangerous. Even if it had been possible, her quality of life would have been limited. I couldn’t ask her to endure more pain just so I could have more time.

So today, I made the hardest decision a pet parent can make:
I chose her peace over my desire to keep her with me.

After I came home, I could feel anger rising in my body—anger at life, at how unfair it feels that our animal companions are only with us for a short time. I recognized that feeling immediately.

When my previous dog passed away years ago, I wasn’t sober. My anger mixed with alcohol, and it wasn’t good. I couldn’t handle the pain, so I threw away everything that reminded me of her. Her bed. Her toys. Anything that made her feel real.

This time is different.

This time, I’m sober. I can see Phoenix’s things around the house. And while it hurts, I’m planning to take my time. This weekend, I’ll clean. I’ll put some things away. I may donate others to a local shelter. I’ll grieve—intentionally, gently.

Last time, I also made another mistake: I got a new dog too soon. I wasn’t ready, and it wasn’t fair—to me or to Phoenix. I compared them. I missed the dog I lost instead of fully seeing the dog in front of me.

This time, I know better.

Right now, I can’t imagine having another dog. And yet, I know how deeply I love having one. I’m allowing myself to sit in that contradiction without rushing to fix it.

I’m sharing this for anyone out there who is a pet parent—especially those who travel, who live abroad, who may feel alone except for the dog at their side.

When your dog gets sick back home, it’s hard enough—even with friends, family, and familiar support around you. When you’re a solo traveler and your dog gets sick, it can feel unbearable.

I want you to know this:
You’re not alone.
Your grief is real.
Your bond mattered.

There are people who understand what it means to choose love, even when it breaks your heart.

If you’re going through this—or if you’ve been there before—my heart is with you.

Phoenix, thank you for walking the world with me.

You are gone from my side but forever in my heart. 🤍