A Tribute to a Very Good Dog: Navigating Grief in Business School

By: Jane Fraley, Kelloggian VP of Events

Amber Fraley

This past October, I was out to dinner at a local Evanston restaurant, Todoroki, on a Friday night with close friends when the text I’d been dreading popped up on my phone. It was my Mom, telling me it was time to say goodbye to our beloved 15-year-old dog, Amber.

I grew up with Amber, a sassy but loving maltipoo who looked like a teddy bear, secretly disliked most people, and was so fluffy that we used to joke most of her weight came from her fur. When I was a kid, I could have had the best day of my life and still end it by climbing into my Mom’s bed to say, “The only thing that would make this day better is if we had a dog.” I must have been exceptionally good at guilt-tripping because I somehow convinced my parents, who had never had a dog as adults and were already managing four human kids, to adopt one when I was in seventh grade. Even though they were reluctant at first, Amber eventually became their favorite child, whether they’d admit it or not.

For me, Amber was a constant presence, like a thread running through every version of myself. She was right by my side through all of my most formative moments—learning how to put in contacts so I could finally ditch my wire-frame glasses, losing both my Grandpas, winning a high school tennis championship, leaving the Midwest for college, the long months of the COVID-19 pandemic when neither of us could get a haircut, and even packing my life into an SUV to move to Evanston. No matter where I lived, knowing she was there made difficult days feel more manageable and the good days feel complete. She truly was my soulmate and best friend, bound together by depths of love I didn’t even know existed.

The hardest part of living without Amber has been trying to figure out who I am without her while also trying to enjoy my final months in the unique environment that is business school. Life at Kellogg moves quickly. A major moment in the social scene becomes old news by the next week, and there’s always another slate of events in #events_social and another trip to plan. Grief, I’m realizing, doesn’t move like that. Three months after we had to put Amber down, I still have frequent moments where I feel completely flattened by sadness and emptiness, unsure how life will ever feel entirely full again.

Part of figuring out who I am without Amber has meant learning how to find new anchors to steady me. In the past, whenever I had a bad day, I would FaceTime my parents just to say hi to Amber (and them, I guess), and I would feel better almost immediately. Now, I’ve had to look elsewhere for that sense of grounding.

Sometimes it still surprises me how close we’ve all become at Kellogg, considering we second-years didn’t know one another a year ago. The moments, days, and months after my Mom texted me while I was at Todoroki showed me that the relationships I’ve formed here have become those anchors. Even though none of my Kellogg friends had ever met Amber, or known how much of my life she had shaped, they understood what the loss meant and that I needed them.

Amber sporting a bowtie

I’ve always struggled to open up about what I’m really feeling, but these past few months have pushed me to become more comfortable doing so, both with close friends and with people I don’t know as well. This quarter, I’m taking a MORS class called Leading and Managing Teams with Professor Maryam Kouchaki where we’ve talked about how sharing your life outside of work (or, in our case, class) helps humanize you to others and, in turn, improves how teams function. Grieving Amber has shown me what that idea looks like in practice—namely, letting others see you in moments of sadness is what makes support and genuine connection possible.

While I don’t quite know who I am without Amber yet, the loss has felt lighter knowing it isn’t carried alone, and in that, I’ve found comfort in knowing I’ll be okay.  

Amber, I love you!

Read the Companion Piece: Becoming a Parent in Business School by Alex Muir