Love and Loss

Stephanie Swann
May 17, 2026

“Grief is perhaps the last and final translation of love.” — Ocean Vuong

The Buddha taught that all conditioned phenomena are impermanent. As practitioners, we have at least intellectually internalized this. Even non-practitioners understand that the seasons change, days turn to nights, kids grow up, and we all grow old.

But this path offers us so much more. It invites us to deeply sense the impermanence of each breath, to be with not only the beginnings but the endings that are our constant companions. With this kind of training, many of us are beginning to know the truth of impermanence in our bones.

But why do we place so much emphasis on impermanence? Besides the Buddha declaring it as one of the three characteristics of reality, in practical terms, we train our minds and hearts in impermanence so that we taste the fruits of each moment with a deeper connection. We also train in impermanence to end our suffering. The suffering I am referring to is the pain that comes from wanting what is impermanent to be permanent, wanting what we do not have, and having what we do not want. I train in impermanence so that when death arrives, I can be fully present and remain in the flow of life.

This past week, that very training was called upon when impermanence, the kind that has an exclamation point after it, touched my life again. My wife Nancy and I said goodbye to our beloved old dog, Moose, and helped him make the transition from his earthly body.

As we have done with our past animals, we spent the day with him, pampering him and offering him his favorite things in life. We then held him close while our compassionate veterinarian administered a medication that would first allow for sleep and then stop his heart. His transition was peaceful and he left his body with relative ease. Because we were in our home, we were able to stay with his body for a while to support our own closure.

Nancy and I shed tears together for the absence that we would feel, and we also shared the joy of Moose no longer suffering with a body that no longer served him well. To be with a sentient being as they take their last breath, and to stay as you feel the energy drain from the body, is also one of the great reminders that we are not these bodies.

Loss has always been and will always be a part of the human experience. We cannot escape loss, but what Moose’s death taught me again, just as my mother’s death taught me in 2024, was that we also do not have to suffer. There can be the pain of loss without the suffering of resistance.

This suffering of resistance is often found in the stories that arise as part of the experience. Sometimes these stories are loud and fully formed. They are concrete thoughts we can point to, like Why did this happen? Why now? Why me?

But other times, the stories are vague and formless. They float quietly around the edges of the mind, hard to put into words but powerful enough to create a heavy aversion and a deep contraction in the heart. Whether these narratives are clear or subtle, they still lock us into resistance.

This resistance can be temporary as we find our way out of our heads and into our hearts. But sadly, when these stories go unseen, they can become a way of life for a very long time. This is what psychologists refer to as complicated grief.

On this path, we learn to see clearly the stories that the mind produces. As we see them, we can respond to them differently. They no longer feel like truths with a capital “T”. A few stories started to creep in after Moose’s death, such as how I could have been a better human, but they did not germinate. They were seen, and with that seeing, I could make a choice to let go and, equally important, drop into the heart.

The mind seeks answers, but the heart only seeks presence. The heart is where the raw pain lives, unadorned by narrative, and it simply needs loving awareness. It needs to be witnessed, to be held, and to be loved exactly as it is. In that soft space of allowance, grief ceases to be an enemy and becomes what Ocean Vuong described, the final, beautiful translation of our love for Moose.

RIP Moose