I wanted to take a moment to share a story that’s still unfolding in my life. It’s a story about depression, resilience, dog ownership, and learning to reclaim my own emotional space.

I moved to a new country a few years ago. During the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, I found myself living there alone. I was oceans away from my family and friends. I was in a place I didn’t know. There were no familiar faces, no community, and no real sense of home. The world was shut down, and so was I. Like many people during that time, I found myself swallowed by depression. Every day felt heavy and disconnected. There was a hollow quietness in my life that slowly started to eat away at me.

Things finally started to settle. I had a bit of structure and stability back. I made a decision I’d thought about for years: I got a dog. I thought bringing a dog into my life would help anchor me. I believed it would force me to go outside, create routines, give me purpose. I pictured hikes in the woods and runs in the park. I imagined camping trips and days full of movement. I envisioned a kind of joy that would emerge from bonding with a loving animal.

And then came Cookie.

Cookie is the love of my life. She’s funny, smart, intuitive, and full of personality. But she is also reactive. That means she gets triggered easily — by other dogs, by people, by noises, by things I can’t always predict. Walking her quickly turned from a dream into a stress-laden ritual. I can’t count how many times I came back home in tears. I’ve cried during walks. I’ve cried after walks. I’ve even cried just thinking about going for a walk.

And yet, not walking her wasn’t an option. She needed it. She deserved it. So I kept going. I dreaded it every time. I held my breath every time we crossed paths with another dog. I apologized to strangers. I felt humiliated, overwhelmed, ashamed, and often completely hopeless.

Instead of becoming a partner in healing, Cookie became a mirror for my anxiety. My world shrank again. Only this time, it wasn’t a virus keeping me inside — it was fear, shame, and exhaustion.

I want to be honest about this. I think there’s a pervasive narrative in our culture. This narrative suggests that dogs always make things better. And sure, sometimes they do. But not always. Not right away. And sometimes, even with all the love in the world, the relationship becomes complicated. This is especially true if your mental health is already fragile.

I never stopped loving Cookie. I’d give my life for her. But I can’t ignore how challenging this has been. I’ve tried everything. I did training and behavioral work. I used enrichment toys, food puzzles, and calming treats. I tried multiple medications and different routines. I went on endless walks at weird hours to avoid triggers. I’ve had to work harder than I ever imagined just to give her the life she deserves.

It’s been years now. But slowly, things are shifting. Thanks to our incredible trainer, Michelle, both Cookie and I are beginning to change. It’s not dramatic. It’s not a fairy tale. But it’s real. We’re learning how to manage each other. I’m getting better at staying calm, and she’s learning to trust me more. The meltdowns still happen, but we recover faster. The anxiety still exists, but it doesn’t own me the way it used to.

And maybe the biggest transformation is this: I’ve finally started to separate my emotional state from hers.

For most of my life, I’ve been a sponge for other people’s emotions. If someone around me was upset, I’d immediately assume it was my fault. I’d interrogate the air: What happened? Did I do something? Are you okay? I couldn’t breathe until I felt the emotional balance return. It was like I needed everyone else to be okay so I could be okay.

I didn’t realize I was doing the same thing with my dog until recently.

Every time Cookie got overwhelmed, I would spiral. Her reactivity wasn’t just a behavior issue — it felt like a personal failure. I mirrored her emotions, absorbed her panic, and then added my own on top. Our walks became emotional battlegrounds. The energy in the house changed depending on how she was feeling. And I let it consume me.

But dogs aren’t people. They don’t need you to fix their emotions. They need structure, support, and space. Cookie needed me to remain composed when she got triggered. She needed my grounded presence.

So I started working on myself.

I began creating small moments of distance — not physical, but emotional. I observed her more, reacted less. I stopped blaming myself for every setback. I accepted that her progress wouldn’t be linear, and neither would mine. And I started doing things just for me again. I began painting again and reading strange books I found at thrift shops. I tried random crafts and drank coffee alone without guilt. Tiny things, but mine.

Now, I can say something I couldn’t before: Cookie and I are different. We are not one tangled emotional being. She has her world, and I have mine. We overlap in play, snuggles, and daily routines. We don’t need to carry each other’s burdens all the time.

It’s hard to do this. It goes against everything I’ve practiced emotionally. I still have nightmares almost weekly. In these nightmares, I lose Cookie, forget her somewhere, or search desperately for her until I wake up in tears. That’s how much space this bond takes up in my mind. That’s how deeply it’s tied to my anxiety.

But this month, I want to say this to anyone else going through something similar: you’re not alone.

Having a reactive dog doesn’t mean you’re failing. Feeling overwhelmed doesn’t mean you’re weak. It’s okay if your dog didn’t become your instant therapy animal. It’s okay if the love is tangled with anxiety and burnout. It’s okay if you’re still figuring it out.

Cookie is still the joy of my life. And yes, she’s still a lot of work. But I’ve stopped pretending it’s all sunshine and healing. There’s another side to the leash. Love is messy there. Progress is slow. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is just go for another walk. And maybe not cry this time! 😅

If you’re walking this same road, I’m here. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re just doing the best you can.

And that’s more than enough!

Cheers! Cookie & Seda 🐾💞