he needed me to calm down first

Our view from sitting on a big river rock and looking up stream!

I have a spot by the Big Thompson River that I don't tell a lot of people about.

It's nothing secret, just a pull-off on Highway 34 through the canyon where I can lay a blanket down by the water and let the river do what rivers do. Wash things away. Bring things in. I've gotten more downloads sitting next to that water than I have in most therapy sessions. It's where my spirit team seems to speak the loudest, maybe because I'm finally quiet enough to hear them.

Last week, I took Teddy there for the first time.

I didn't know how the car ride would go. I didn't know if he'd be too anxious to settle, too reactive to enjoy anything, too wound up from the unfamiliarity of it all. But I kept him in his bed, let him stick his nose out the window when he wanted to, and stayed present with him the whole drive. Which is exactly what I needed too. Having him there meant I couldn't drift off into my head. I had to just be in the car, in the canyon, in the moment.

I'm surprised I didn't cry. I had waited a really long time to have that drive with a dog again. Especially this sweet boy.

Our spot by the river after rockhounding!

We laid on the blanket by the river, his little body eventually settling in beside me, and I sat there thinking about rocks, lmao. About how this trip was one of the first times I'd ever considered rockhounding a part of my actual work rather than just something I do to feel human again. Which was nice… and also a little terrifying, because I have this deep internalized fear that if I turn the things I love into work, I'm going to eventually stop loving them. But sitting there with Teddy, watching him sniff every blade of grass within leash range, and chase little flying bugs, I couldn't imagine not loving every second of this, always.

We hit our one month together on July 9th… and in one month, I have cried in the car more than I'd like to admit, walked up to more strangers than I have in years, found new trails I never would have found alone, and looked in the mirror more clearly than I have, maybe ever. Because here's the thing about having an anxious dog: you cannot hide your own anxiety from them. They know. They smell it, feel it before you do.

Selfie from a pull off with incredible views!

Teddy is reactive. Fear-based, the vet confirmed it, the trainer confirmed it, all strangers confirm it. He scans, he braces, he decides someone is a threat before they've even looked at him. Watching him do that — watching his little body go stiff and his ears go back — I started recognizing something I wasn't fully prepared to see… I do that too. Not with my body the way he does, but internally. That quick, automatic scan. The calculation. The assumed judgement. The bracing.

I've done YEARS of nervous system work, and I'm genuinely proud of how far I've come. But Teddy showed me that the anxiousness hasn'tleft — it's just moved. It's not deep in my bones anymore. It's closer to the surface of my skin now. Still there, still flowing. Just less buried than it used to be under pounds of unfelt emotions.

And I realized pretty quickly: I'm not equipped to get him where he deserves to be on my own.

So I did what I'm good at. I researched. I asked the right questions. I found a Wizard of Dogs! A 15-day training program where Teddy goes to school 3 days a week, and I show up on Fridays to learn right alongside him. I am fully, completely, a dog dad who is dropping his baby off at school at 8am, picking him up at 4pm.. and bitch, I have ZERO shame about it.

A few years ago, I wouldn't have had the courage to ask for this kind of help. Let alone show up for classes and pay for it. But something has shifted and I think part of what shifted is that I'm finally allowing Teddy to just be a dog. With Mellow, and even with Phoenix, I think I personified them because I needed them to understand my feelings. Projected things onto them they didn't understand (and if they did, they wouldn’t agree with how I spoke about myself). I think that behavior can create a quiet resentment, in the animals and the owner. This time feels different. Teddy is a dog, and I see him as a dog. He is happy sleeping in his bed next to me while I work. He doesn't need my attention every single second, and I'm learning [slowly] that I don't have to feel guilty about that.

If I can reprogram my heart, mind, and soul over the past 9 years of work, I am absolutely sure Teddy can do it with professional help too! Regardless, I cannot wait to see who he is on the other side of this… who we both will be!

Because we already have a future to get to.

In January, we're driving from Colorado to California. Three weeks. Car camping. PCH. Strangers. New smells. Open road. And I genuinely believe, by then, we're both going to be in a completely different place. More open. Less braced. More curious than scared.

That's what I want for him and myself!

Teddy bear dancing for a treat!

My old therapist used to be a spiritual mirror for me in a way that I haven't been able to fully replace since she moved on. I've been trying to find that reflection somewhere else, and I think — as strange as it might sound — I'm finding it in Teddy. When I look at him, I remember how deeply I love him… and more importantly, I remember where that kind of love actually comes from.

He needed me to calm down first. I needed him to show me I hadn't finished healing yet.