The Revenant

The Revenant

In the harshest winters, the world can feel like an unforgiving wilderness. When I first met Revenant, I never imagined he would become the heartbeat of my life, nor did I foresee the cold bite of losing him. He came to me in a time of chaos, an unspoken promise of loyalty and love. His eyes, full of unrelenting trust, spoke volumes without uttering a single word. He was my companion, my protector, my calm in a storm. And then, in a twist of fate that mirrored the relentless struggle in The Revenant, I lost him. What was ironic, is that years earlier I had named him Revenant.

The story of the movie The Revenant is one of survival, revenge, and the fierce will to live. Hugh Glass, portrayed by Leonardo DiCaprio, endures betrayal, the brutal forces of nature, and personal torment. As he fights to survive in the unforgiving wilderness, he makes it clear that survival isn’t just about making it through another day—it’s about confronting the wounds left by others and seeking justice for the wrongs done. In many ways, that story mirrors my own struggle with loss. Revenant was taken from me in a divorce, a cold betrayal that stung more deeply than anything I could have ever prepared for. He wasn’t just a dog; he was family. He was my refuge from the miserable world I was living in at the time.

I remember the first few days after losing him—the emptiness from him by my side, the quiet space where his paw prints used to echo. In the early stages of grief, much like Glass after his near-death experience in the film, I was consumed with rage and sadness. Every moment without him felt like a jagged edge on my soul, and like the man in the wilderness, I thought about revenge. The urge to confront those responsible for my pain lingered like a shadow, whispering that justice could only come through direct confrontation. Yet, as The Revenant shows, sometimes the greatest revenge isn’t in the confrontation—it’s in survival and letting the universe restore balance.

The pain that I carried for so long gradually began to shift. I started to realize that in this chaotic dance of life, sometimes letting go is the only way forward. There’s a saying: “The universe has a way of balancing itself.” For every wrong, there is a natural course that delivers karma, though not always in the ways we expect. I’ve come to understand that revenge isn’t always ours to take. Sometimes, it’s a force bigger than ourselves—a natural justice that doesn’t require us to lift a finger.

Like Glass crawling through the snow, broken and battered, I began to heal. Slowly, the rage I once felt faded into the background. It wasn’t about forgetting what happened, nor was it about forgiving those who wronged me. It was about realizing that by holding onto the pain, I was giving power to a past that no longer served me. Life, like nature, moves forward relentlessly. It waits for no one. And just as Glass had to let the wilderness shape his destiny, I realized I had to let the universe take its course.

In time, the memories of Revenant, while painful, transformed into something far greater. They became a tribute to what he gave me, rather than a reminder of what I lost. The loyalty, the joy, the unwavering companionship—we don’t truly lose those who have touched us in such a profound way. They live in the essence of who we are. The universe doesn’t erase our pain—it allows us to grow through it, to find peace in acceptance.

Revenant may be gone, but in many ways, he lives on in my journey. The struggle, the loss, the fight for acceptance—just as Glass had to let go of his thirst for revenge to truly survive, I have let go of my own. In time, I know the balance of the universe will correct itself. The natural course will serve justice to those who deserve it. And in the end, I have found peace—not through confrontation, but through letting the flow of life move forward.

We don’t always get to choose how we’re hurt, or how we lose. But we can choose how we heal. Like The Revenant, my story has come full circle—not in a grand act of revenge, but in a quiet acceptance that sometimes, the world knows best when to restore what was taken. And in that restoration, we find our own rebirth.

-Robert James Fitzsimmons