18 Months Without Jasper

Today marks a year and a half without Jasper. It hasn’t gotten easier, but I have gotten stronger.

When I look back on the last 18 months, I see not only the pain of losing my best friend, but also the beauty of what we’re creating here together. This community exists because of him—and because of all of us who know what it means to lose someone we can’t imagine living without.

The Waves of Grief

“Grief doesn’t shrink—it shapes you.”

In the early days, grief was all-consuming. It felt like a constant cloud over everything—every moment, every interaction, every thought. I didn’t know what to do with the emotions that came up, and when they did, I often felt guilty for feeling them. I would spiral for hours, sometimes days, trying to make sense of it all.

Now, I’ve learned to accept the emotions for what they are. To let them wash over me instead of fighting them. To give them space and not attach guilt or judgment. When I allow myself to feel instead of resist, the emotions pass more gently. I still feel the heavy weight of missing Jasper—like I’ve lost a limb—but I also feel stronger, more grounded, and more equipped to carry it.

“Grief and love can coexist. It doesn’t have to be one or the other—it’s both.”

Grief has taught me that I’m stronger than I ever realized. What used to completely unravel me—seeing photos, hearing comments, or watching others play with their pets—doesn’t shake me the same way anymore. I’ve learned that grief and love can coexist. That I can feel heartbreak and gratitude at the same time. It doesn’t have to be one or the other—it’s both, and that’s beautiful in its own way.

Something that once felt unbearable was thinking about or getting excited for the future. Early on, it felt like moving forward meant leaving Jasper behind—that it would somehow be disloyal. But I’ve learned that moving forward is honoring him. That everything I do now carries him with me. I often ask myself what he would want me to do with my life—and that helps me take the next step, even when it’s hard.

What I didn’t expect to learn through grief is how much shame and isolation come with it. The world expects us to “move on,” but when you lose someone—especially a pet who gave unconditional love and companionship—it changes you permanently. The pain doesn’t disappear; it becomes part of who you are. But the world keeps spinning, and that disconnect can feel lonely.

Through this, I’ve learned to check in more with people, to ask how they’re really doing, and to make space for grief in daily life. Because grief doesn’t only come from death—it comes from all kinds of change. Freezing my eggs, for example, brought grief for the version of life I thought I’d have. Losing a job, a friendship, a sense of identity—all of it can be grief. It’s everywhere. And the more we name it, the less alone we feel in it.

“The more we name grief, the less alone we feel in it.”

Remembering Jasper

“Wherever we were—whatever city, apartment, or chapter—if he was there, I was home.”

I miss his presence more than anything. We moved around a lot over the years, so Jasper became home to me. Wherever we were—whatever city, apartment, or chapter—if he was there, I was home.

I miss the quiet moments the most: lounging on the couch together while I read a book, his soft snoring filling the room. I miss him sitting in the passenger seat during long road trips or quick errands to the store. And I miss the way he looked at me—like I was the most important person in the world, like I hung the moon.

Even though he’s gone, I still feel him in moments of stillness. When I’m reading in bed or sitting on my balcony, I can sense his presence—calm, grounding, familiar. I still talk to him out loud, updating him on what’s happening in my life, asking him to watch over me, to stay close. I ask him if he’s proud of me. I talk to him when I walk on the beach or drive alone, and when something beautiful or unexpected happens, I thank him for it.

Jasper was a complicated little man. He had such a vibrant personality—sweet and deeply attuned to me, always knowing when I needed extra comfort or love. But he was also spicy; if he felt ignored or if dinner was a minute late, he’d let me know. And despite being a little guy with barely any teeth, he was fiercely loyal and protective. If someone got too close or didn’t have the best intentions, he’d step up like a guard dog twice his size. He was my partner, my shadow, my constant.

The Power of Community

“Here, I don’t always have to be strong. I can be honest. I can fall apart and still feel held.”

This community has become a constant presence—people who truly get me. I don’t have to hide my emotions or pretend to be okay. I can show up exactly as I am—raw, messy, unfiltered—and know I’ll be met with understanding and compassion. Here, I don’t always have to be strong. I can be honest. I can fall apart and still feel held.

Every day, I’m moved by the way people show up for one another. When someone’s having a hard day, others step in to lift them up. And then, when their turn comes to struggle, that same support comes right back around. It’s this beautiful rhythm of giving and receiving—an unspoken understanding that we’re all in this together.

“People here don’t just want to heal—they want to transform.”

People in this community keep showing up—not just on the hard days, but on the good ones too. They show up by sharing their stories, knowing that speaking their truth not only helps them heal but helps someone else feel less alone. They share what’s helped them—tools, routines, reflections—hoping it might help someone else find even a small bit of peace.

I’ve witnessed incredible growth here. Members who once felt lost in their pain are now finding purpose again. Some are training to become grief coaches. Others have become brand ambassadors for Jasper, wanting to give back to the space that helped them rebuild. That’s what makes this community so unique: it’s filled with people who not only want to heal, but also want to transform—people who’ve recognized the enormity of their loss and are now using it as a catalyst to rediscover meaning and possibility.

Creating Jasper has given me a new sense of purpose. What started as my way of surviving has become a way to help others do the same. Jasper gave me so much love and light in his lifetime—and now, through this community, I get to share even a small piece of that with others.

Looking Ahead: Jasper’s Legacy

“Everyone deserves to grieve out loud, surrounded by people who get it.”

I hope Jasper’s legacy reminds people that everyone deserves to grieve out loud, surrounded by others who understand. Nobody should have to do this in isolation. Grief isn’t meant to be hidden; it’s healthy to express it. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that acknowledging my grief and letting it out makes me feel immensely better. My hope is that people learn grief is not something to be ashamed of.

And to you, Jasper:

Jasper — I hope you’re proud of what we’re building. You are still, and will always be, my best friend and the greatest joy of my life. I’m doing this for you, and for every person out there that has had an incredible relationship with their pet. Jasper, what you inspired me to do has changed so many lives already and will change so many more. I hope you know how big of an imprint you have left and will continue leaving in this world.

Thank you for inspiring this community. Thank you for inspiring me. 🤎