Limitless Adventures in Pawrenting

Did She Have To Lose Everything?

I used to think loss arrived with clarity. I thought it would announce itself loudly, take what it came for, and leave me with a clean outline of grief to study. But that is not how it happened. What I lost did not vanish all at once. It unraveled slowly, almost politely, until one day I looked around and realized the life I had built no longer recognized me.

So I ask the question often, sometimes in anger and sometimes in awe: Did she have to lose everything?

I ask it as if I am speaking about someone else, some distant woman in a story I might pity. But the truth is, I am asking about myself. I am asking whether the collapse was necessary. Whether the breaking was cruel coincidence or some brutal form of instruction. Whether I could have become who I am now without first being stripped of who I thought I was.

There was a time when I measured my life by what could be named and displayed. Achievement gave me shape. Plans gave me direction. The approval of others gave me a feeling I mistook for safety. I collected expectations and wore them so well that even I forgot they were costumes. From the outside, my life may have seemed full. But fullness is not always the same as truth. Sometimes a life looks complete only because there is no visible room left for the self.

When the losses began, I did not greet them with wisdom. I greeted them with resistance. I mourned every version of the future that disappeared. I clung to identities that no longer fit. I begged life, in all the silent ways a person can beg, to return me to what was familiar. I did not want transformation. I wanted restoration. I wanted my old certainties handed back to me, untouched.

But loss is not sentimental. It does not always return what it takes. Sometimes it comes to expose the fragile scaffolding beneath the life we have been calling our own.

Losing what I depended on forced me to confront how much of myself had been outsourced—to work, to relationships, to ambition, to being needed, to being admired, to the comfort of knowing exactly how to introduce myself. When those things fell away, I felt humiliated by my own emptiness. I wanted to believe I had lost too much. Yet what frightened me most was not the absence of those things, but the possibility that I had never learned how to exist without them.

That is the quiet violence of loss: it does not only take what you love. It reveals what you built your life upon.

And still, I resist the romance of suffering. I do not want to glorify devastation as if pain is the only worthy teacher. I do not believe every wound is noble, or that every collapse arrives with hidden purpose neatly tucked inside it. Some losses are simply losses. Some griefs never become wisdom. Some endings leave scars without offering revelation.

And yet, if I am honest, I cannot deny that losing so much changed the terms of my life. It interrupted the performance. It dismantled the illusion that worth could be secured through success or permanence or being chosen. It left me with fewer places to hide. In that stripped-down landscape, I met myself differently—not as an achievement, not as a role, not as a promise waiting to be fulfilled, but as a person. Frightened, unfinished, grieving, still here.

Maybe that is why the question remains so difficult. Did she have to lose everything? I still do not know. Perhaps not everything was necessary. Perhaps some of it was waste. Perhaps some of it was preventable. But I know this: what was lost made visible what could not survive the truth. And what remained, though shaken, was more honest than what came before.

I began to understand that survival is not always dramatic. Sometimes it is quiet. Sometimes it looks like getting out of bed when no larger story is available to rescue the day. Sometimes it looks like releasing the need to make the pain meaningful before allowing it to be real. Sometimes it is simply the refusal to abandon yourself when life has already taken so much.

There is a version of me that still grieves the woman who thought she could keep everything by being good enough, careful enough, useful enough. I have tenderness for her now. She was trying to build a life that would not betray her. She did not know that control can be its own kind of fragility. She did not know that what is built on fear of loss is already half lost.

If I have learned anything, it is that losing everything and losing what can no longer hold you are not always the same thing. At the time, they feel identical. Both leave you emptied. Both leave you raw. But one is annihilation, and the other—though it never feels merciful in the moment—may be the beginning of a more truthful life.

So did she have to lose everything?

I cannot answer with certainty. But I know that after the loss, there was no applause, no revelation waiting under a spotlight, no instant rebirth. There was only the slow, sacred work of meeting myself without the old disguises. There was the task of learning that I was still worthy in the absence of what once defined me. There was the difficult grace of becoming a person rather than a performance.

Maybe that is the only answer I have.

She lost much more than she should have.

But in the ruins, she found what could not be taken.

Listen to the full episode on Tech Lay-offs and Belgian Malinois on The Pawrenting Company Podcast!