Even in loss, love doesn’t leave…

You know that feeling when you wake up and everything feels… off? Like the world is wrapped in a thin layer of fog, and you can’t quite touch it? That was my life for years. Maybe forever.

Until I realised - it wasn’t just in my head. My body had been fighting me in ways I didn’t understand.

I used to think I was just lazy. That I wasn’t trying hard enough. That something in me was just… broken.

But no. It turns out, I had a silent companion all along - hypothyroidism. And when I finally got diagnosed and started medication, things slowly began to shift. Not overnight, not like some grand awakening, but in small, almost unnoticeable ways at first. A little more energy. A little more clarity. A little less hormonal roller coasters… Like someone had turned up the brightness of the world just a notch.

But here’s something I’ve realised - it's not just about the medication.

Getting better is a full-time job. A daily commitment to building myself back up, piece by piece, with everything that’s in my power. Nourishing my body. Moving in ways that feel good. Letting myself rest without guilt. Learning to trust that I’m not weak or broken - I was just depleted for so long.

And even though it takes effort, even though it’s still a process, it’s getting easier every day.

I feel alive.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I can actually feel life flowing through me. The heaviness is lifting. And with it, this immense, almost overwhelming gratitude. Gratitude for my body, even after all the years I spent resenting it. Gratitude for the small things - waking up with energy, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin, wanting to do things instead of forcing myself through them.

I didn’t know how much of me was missing until I started coming back to life.

I’m still on my way out of that dark place. Still figuring out how to put it into words. But I know this: Even in the fog, there was magic.

Not, like, wands and sparkles magic - though I wouldn’t mind that. But the kind of magic that sneaks up on you. The kind that sits beside you in the hardest moments, waiting for you to notice.

Like how a body that felt half-asleep for years can suddenly start to wake up. How food tastes different when you’re actually nourishing yourself. How movement - running, walking, even stretching, feels like a homecoming instead of a battle.

Or how, even in loss, love doesn’t leave…

*

Pruutus. My little old man. My shadow. My heart.

He was the biggest challenge and the greatest blessing at the same time. He needed so much care. I mean - a lot. There were days when it felt overwhelming, when exhaustion took over, and I wondered how much more I could give. But now, looking back, I understand something I didn’t fully see before.

Pruutus was my guardian angel.

Even when I was struggling the most, even when I felt like I was slipping into the deepest and darkest holes, simply his existence held me back. He anchored me to something real. To love. To responsibility. To presence.

And now, without him, I’m still figuring out how to exist in a world where he isn’t. I still expect to hear his paws tapping on the floor. The silence he left is loud.

Even if it’s just me and Indrek now, Pruutus will always be a big part of our story. He shaped us - our days, our routines, our love, our patience. He was with us through most of the chapters of our life, and even though he’s gone, his presence hasn’t faded. It’s in the way we speak about him as if he’s still just in the next room. In the way we instinctively glance at his favorite spot on the floor. In the way we care for each other, softened by the years of caring for him.

He isn’t physically here, but we carry him forward. We always will.

But here’s something I’ve learned: Even in grief, there is magic.

Because love doesn’t just stop. It shifts. It lingers in the way I talk to him, even though he’s not here. In the way I still feel him near me, somehow.

And maybe that’s what I’m really trying to say.

Life is magic. Even when it’s hard. Even when I don’t feel it. Even when I doubt it.

What if it’s always been?

Maybe the magic isn’t in the perfect moments, but in the messy, human, complicated ones. Maybe it’s in the falling apart and the putting back together. In the letting go and the holding on.