I never thought mornings could feel this heavy. People talk about night as the darkest place, but for me, it was the first light of day that hurt the most. The moment when the world wakes up and expects you to join it, to be alive, to move. But I could not.

The alarm on my phone had gone off an hour ago. I let it ring until it gave up. The room was quiet now. Too quiet. I lay still, staring at the ceiling, thinking of nothing and everything at the same time. That was the thing about depression. It was not always pain. Sometimes it was emptiness so deep that even breathing felt like too much effort.

Then I heard it. The sound that broke the silence.
Soft paws tapping across the wooden floor.

Cookie.

Her name was the only warm thing in my thoughts. She did not bark or whine. She just waited by the bed, her tail giving short, excited flicks, a tiny, insistent rhythm like a heartbeat. I turned my head. She was sitting there, head slightly tilted, blue eyes locked on me, glowing with hope.

That look never carried judgment. It was not the tired concern I saw on other faces. It was not pity. It was belief. Pure, unshakable belief that I would rise. Her whole body wagged like happiness was spilling out of her, and somehow, that happiness was for me.

I wanted to tell her “Not today.” The words formed in my mind but never reached my lips. Instead, I pulled the blanket tighter. Maybe if I hid long enough, she would give up and curl up in her bed.

But she had her own plan. She hopped onto the mattress with a soft thud and pressed her warm head against my arm. The weight was small, but it felt like an anchor. Something real, something alive, touching me. I felt the brush of her fur, smelled the faint outdoors clinging to her coat, the scent of grass and earth from yesterday’s walk.

She licked my hand. Once, then again, her tongue warm and patient, as if to say, I am here. Come back.

And something broke loose inside me. Not joy, not yet but something close to it. A reason.

I sat up. It felt like moving through water, slow and heavy, but I did it. The moment my feet touched the floor, Cookie’s excitement exploded. Her tail wagged like a metronome gone wild, her little body twisting in a dance of pure relief. You would think I had just saved the whole world.

Maybe, in her eyes, I had.

I pulled on a sweatshirt and grabbed her leash. She barked once, sharp and bright like a spark in the dark. When I opened the door, the cold air rushed in, sharp and clean, almost shocking. Cookie dashed outside, nose to the ground, chasing a hundred invisible stories written in the grass.

I stepped out and followed her. The world looked different than it had an hour ago. The sky was pale blue, the kind of fragile color that only exists in early morning. The sun was still low, painting everything with a golden edge. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. The air smelled like rain from the night before, like fresh earth.

Cookie found a leaf and pounced on it like it was the greatest treasure in existence. Her ears flopped, her paws skidded, and then she froze, waiting for the wind to move her prize again. When it did, she leaped after it, barking at the leaf as if she had a chance of winning the fight.

And I laughed. Quiet at first, then louder. The sound startled me because I could not remember the last time it had come from me. Cookie stopped and looked at me. Her head tilted again. Her tail wagged faster now. If I was laughing, the world must be perfect.

I thought about the day I got her. My friends said, “You just changed her life.” I believed that then. But now, watching her dance with a leaf under a sky that felt bigger than my sadness, I understood the truth.

I had not saved her.
She had saved me.

Cookie does not know what depression is. She does not understand therapy or medication or the way I sometimes disappear inside my head. She only knows that I am her person, and that is enough reason for her to love me with every breath in her small body.

That is the thing about dogs. They do not fix everything. They do not erase pain or make life easy. But they fight the darkness in ways no words ever could. With wagging tails. With muddy paws. With eyes that say, “You are my whole world.” And sometimes, that is all a person needs to stay.

When we got back home, Cookie curled up on the couch, tired and happy. I sat beside her. I ran my fingers through her fur. I realized something simple but powerful. Tomorrow will come. When it does, Cookie will be here, waiting. Waiting with belief and love and excitement for a new day.

And for now, that is enough.

With love, Seda & Cookie 🌺