Mohini Kundu

“But what is grief, if not love persevering?”

For much of my life I’ve hated endings. I thought the most perfect ending to a book was, “See you tomorrow.” If life doesn’t go on and, more importantly, continue to be lovely, what’s the point of existing at all?

Ah, to be so young again. My therapist would probably say I had an issue with control, needing things to stay the same in order to feel safe rather than letting them be ever-changing as life tends to be.

Needless to say, I never wanted to live in a world without my childhood dog, Mishti. I had lost family members before her, but somehow none had affected me in quite the same way. We got her when I was 13 years old. I turned 30 a week before she passed. She lived a good long life, 18 years — but no amount of time would have been enough.

She was a constant and an anchor during my foundational years. She was comfort, home, pure joy. I went away to college, even moved to the city during her life — but she was always there to come back to. Always waiting at the door with her tail wagging in greeting. Over the years her approach slowed. She spent more time napping than chasing squirrels. But she was still there. And all was right with the world.

For years though, as she gradually aged, I knew it wouldn’t always be this way. I just couldn’t accept it. I didn’t want to. Mishti, with her unconditional love, soothing presence, her cherished place in every good memory of my youth — I had no idea how to let her go. I had absolutely no desire to.

The anticipatory anxiety of losing her started years before she died. I would cry in the shower thinking about how one day I would no longer find her in her familiar spots. Clearly, there was something more happening inside me, a lack of center to keep me grounded. Unfortunately, I wasn’t aware of any of this before she died.

Mishti passed on February 2, 2021. Losing her felt like losing the purest good in my life. I had no idea how to process a world without her. And this unearthed something true and scary: I didn’t know how to feel safe on my own. Since childhood I had developed habits to give me a sense of security, but I didn’t have a foundation of safety within me.

A childhood like mine that is filled with change can result in coping methods for security that are more like bandaids. I moved to a new country and back before the age of 5; my brother and I were caught up in my parents’ divorce and custody battles. We would go back and forth between their homes for the entirety of our school years.

I didn’t know how to be okay without my talismans. I didn’t know how to hold anything lightly, for fear it would be gone forever. Losing Mishti was always going to be devastating, but it was also the beginning of a journey that taught me so much. It opened up old wounds, but it also started to help me heal from them.

When she passed I had to learn again, or perhaps for the first time, how to be grateful, how to cope with change, how to stand on my own. Mishti guarded my youth, and because of her it will always be golden. She ended up helping me grow up too. Most important of all, she is my proof that even if it changes, love never, ever ends.