For Simba
October 21, 2017 - June 13, 2026
There is a version of my life that exists before Simba and a version that exists because of him.
For almost a decade, he was my constant.
Before the promotions. Before the businesses. Before the speaking engagements, the dinners, the followers, and all the things people see when they look at my life now, there was Simba.
A 150-pound Rottweiler who somehow became my shadow.
For years, I never walked into a room alone. I never slept in a house alone. I never sat on the couch alone. Simba was always there—watching, waiting, protecting.
And if you’ve ever loved a Rottweiler, you understand that “dog” isn’t really the right word.
They become your person.
Your bodyguard.
Your roommate.
Your emotional support system.
Your family.
The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized how much of adulthood is learning how to say goodbye.
Goodbye to relationships.
Goodbye to old versions of ourselves.
Goodbye to people we love.
But no one really prepares you for saying goodbye to a dog who has been woven into the fabric of your everyday life.
The kind of presence you stop noticing because it’s always there. The sound of his paws on the floor. The weight of his head resting on your leg. The way he positioned himself between me and a stranger. The way he checked every room before settling down. The way he somehow knew when I was sad before I’d even said a word.
Simba has seen every version of me.
The ambitious one.
The heartbroken one.
The exhausted one.
The successful one.
The one who wasn’t sure she could keep going.
He was there through career changes, promotions, heartbreak, loss, wins, uncertainty, and reinvention. He was there through some of the most transformative years of my life. And through every chapter, he loved me exactly the same. No expectations. No conditions. No judgment.
Just loyalty. The purest form of it I’ve ever known.
And then one day, without realizing it, we reached the end of our story.
There is no way to prepare yourself for losing a dog who has been part of your everyday life for nearly a decade.
No amount of time feels like enough. No final walk feels long enough. No last cuddle feels sufficient. When Simba left this world, he took a piece of my heart with him.
The house is quieter. The routines are changing. The spaces he used to occupy suddenly feel impossibly empty. For the first time in years, I’m learning what life looks like without him beside me.
And that has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
Not because Simba was just a dog. But because he wasn’t.
He was family.
He was my protector.
He was my best friend.
He was the steady presence who made the world feel safer.
When life felt uncertain, Simba never was.
He never cared about my title, my income, my accomplishments, or whether I had everything figured out.
He was just happy that I came home.
And somehow, in a world that often makes love feel conditional, that kind of devotion feels almost sacred.
I keep catching myself look for him. Still expecting to hear his paws across the floor. Still expecting to see him waiting for me when I walk through the door. Still expecting to glance over and find him sleeping in his favorite spot.
That’s the thing about loving a dog like Simba. They leave this world, but they never really leave you.
They remain in the routines. In the memories. In the stories you tell. In the pieces of yourself they helped shape.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how lucky I was. Because that’s what grief really is. It’s love with nowhere to go. And if grief is the price of loving Simba, I would pay it a thousand times over.
What a privilege it was to spend nearly ten years with a soul who made the world feel safer simply by existing in it. What a privilege it was to be protected so fiercely. What a privilege it was to be loved so completely.
Most dogs spend their lives proving they love us. Simba never had to prove it. I knew. Every single day, I knew.
So while my heart aches, it is also full. Full of memories. Full of gratitude. Full of the kind of love that doesn’t disappear when someone leaves. It simply changes shape.
Thank you, my sweet boy.
For every walk.
For every cuddle.
For every car ride.
For every moment you stood guard when you thought I needed protecting.
For every time you made me laugh.
For every year.
For every memory.
For every ounce of unconditional love you gave so freely.
You were the best dog I could have ever asked for. The best friend I could have ever hoped for. The best boy. And while I would give anything for more time, I wouldn’t trade a single moment of the time we had. I pray I find you in every lifetime.
What a gift it was to be your person.
What a gift it was to be loved by you.
I love you, Simba. Mommy misses you so much.
Always.