This Is Your Life
In 2018, I had left my dog, Leland, in Chicago with my ex-husband so I could move out to California and start a new job. No words can encapsulate how devastating that was for me. We had only been divorced for seven months and were trying out the whole shared dog custody thing, a ridiculous modern-day issue that childless couples face post-breakup. I was the one to move out of our condo and get my own apartment. We had Leland for nine years together, all of which were spent in the same condo on Fulton Market. When Leland would come to my new apartment, he’d pace around and pant, a common sign of stress in a dog. He was unsure of how to get settled or where to relax. Much like myself. When it came time to move out west, I knew I couldn’t force that gigantic change on him. I was also going into uncharted territory, not knowing how much money I’d really be making or how to juggle a more structured 8:30-5 office life. I will never forget my parting words: It’s not goodbye forever, sweet boy, just for now.
I spent the next two years in California in a fairly deep depression, unable to go too long without crying or spacing out and dissociating. The California dream was not dreamy to me. And I was suffering a huge hit to my identity. No longer was I a wife, a Chicagoan, a yoga teacher, or dog mom. I didn’t recognize who I had become. It was still being determined. So I kept holding onto the life I used to have as the ideal. I kept thinking, if I can just get back to where I was, life will be good again.
Flash forward to the fall of 2022. I had moved to northern Michigan the year prior and bought a house. I always held out hope that I’d get Leland back, but he passed at the age of 13, the year I returned, from a tumor on his spleen. Another wave of grief. I didn’t get a final goodbye.
Leland was my soul dog. You know the one? I cared more for him than nearly anyone else in my life. A true relationship of unconditional love. After he passed, I had this dream that Leland would reincarnate and find me again and I was intent on making this happen. Leland was a black lab/shepherd mix, the gentlest of giants. I wanted to get another big dog to go on adventures with, but I wanted one that was different enough from Leland so I wouldn’t immediately compare the two. A golden retriever puppy seemed like the route to go. I got June that fall of ‘22 and had the highest of hopes for a sweet, new companion by my side. My girl who would always have my back. Jen and June, the dynamic duo.
Except that June came straight from hell. If Leland was the stoner dog, which everyone called him, June was the devil incarnate. The first night I had her, I thought she was going to demolish her crate. She barked incessantly, bit my ankles, jumped on anything and everything, ate her own poop, and generally upset my peaceful, work-from-home life. I would wake up every day, ever so quietly, and hope she would not be roused from her slumber before I made a cup of coffee. A next-to-impossible feat in an 800-square-foot house. When I’d crawl into bed at night, each day felt like I’d somehow overcome a Herculean feat. I survived another day of pure chaos created by a 14-pound ball of fluff. I haven’t had human children, and who knows if I will, but I imagine there are days where the struggle is so fierce that the thought of getting out of bed, day in and day out, without a restful day in sight, feels like a special form of torture. People kept telling me to wait two years. That’s when June would finally settle down. Waiting two years felt like the equivalent of asking me to leave Leland all over again and move out west a second time. I couldn’t. I finally posted in the breeder’s Facebook group and asked if anyone else was struggling with their new puppy. One woman said her puppy just slept all the time. I hated her.
It wasn’t until the breeder came over to survey my setup that I finally considered another option. She confirmed that June was indeed a wild child. And even with her pro training capabilities, she couldn’t calm June down or get her to stop barking. This felt validating. I had spent five weeks working on all my training tips from Good Pup to no avail. She told me that if I was having any doubts at all, she’d glady take her back and rehome her. I slept on it. And then immediately called her the next morning and asked her to take the tiny spawn of Satan away. While the right choice for both of us, it didn’t come without anguish. I felt irresponsible, I judged myself, I felt like a monster, and more than anything, I was deeply disappointed. My sidekick that I dreamed of didn’t work out. And I cried a very ugly cry when the breeder took her away. But then I cleaned my house, put all the baby gates away, and sat in silence, feeling the ambivalence of guilt and relief.
It’s confronting to make a big decision and then renege. My dad had rehomed a dog a couple years before this situation and I judged him harshly. How could he? How did he not think it through before getting the dog in the first place? Many people choose to stick things out when they’re unhappy. I was raised to believe that Morrises aren’t quitters. But what one of my favorite thought leaders, Marie Forleo, calls it, positive quitting is just that—positive. If something is stealing your time, your energy, your peace, your joy, and you look down the line and can’t envision another day living like that, let alone another decade, then you get to decide. Do you stay and suffer? Or do you make the difficult choice and move on? Just because something ends does not mean it’s a failure. It means it ended. Period. It’s a huge annoyance for me when people describe getting divorced as having failed at marriage. Wouldn’t failure also include staying in a marriage where you’re miserable? The meaning you make out of something ending is up to you. Sure, other people will make their own meaning out of your choices. But you’re not living your life for them (hopefully). You’re living it for you.
A year after June, I reflected on the situation and thought that I had made a mistake by getting a puppy. Leland was a rescue and we got him at 10 months, after all. So why not rescue a golden retriever who had some years under her belt? I looked into Golden Retriever Rescues of Michigan and along came Gracie, a 2-year-old who was looking for her forever home. The foster mom said she had a habit of stealing food off the counter (a foodie like me!) and hated being alone (me too!), and was an overall sweet girl who just wanted to chase her tennis ball. That all sounded manageable to me. The day I signed the paperwork, the foster mom said one last thing: Oh yeah, Gracie has a propensity for eating her fecal. And then she laughed. I did not. Another poop eater?! I used to stalk June in the yard and douse her poop with cayenne pepper to deter her from eating it. Of course it did not stop her cause. And it didn’t for Grace either. I will not say this is the only reason Gracie did not work out for me. What I realized is that exercising her the amount she needed, not being able to pick up and go on vacation or take a road trip when the mood struck, and the immense amount of shedding did not fit with my lifestyle. Were those all things I could have realized and considered before spending the time and money and getting Gracie’s hopes up? Yes. They were.
Here’s the thing. What took me time to realize is that I kept trying to recreate something that no longer existed. Leland was gone. My life with Leland had expired. None of what I experienced before was duplicable. And I kept forcing the matter because I thought it would fill the void, heal the pain, and grant me the unconditional love that I was so desperately seeking. What I didn’t want to admit was that perhaps I was no longer the dog person that I once was. Perhaps I had learned to value my freedom so much over the last few years that being a dog mom wasn’t a priority. Perhaps I had changed and I just didn’t want to admit it. Choosing to rehome a dog, yet again, was not my proudest moment. I felt the familiar feelings of shame, embarrassment, irresponsibility, and regret. But they weren’t big enough to force myself into 10 years of a lifestyle that wasn’t going to make me happy. There are people out there who would. And at one point in my life, I was one of them. But I’m not anymore.
Marie Forleo also talks about how clarity comes from engagement, not thought. Meaning clarity comes when we engage with life, when we try things out, when we take action and move in the direction of our dreams instead of just thinking about them. Forget about one day. Engage with the world now. There’s so much power in being able to go down a path and decide that it’s not for you. When something ends, it’s a new opportunity. Just because you rehome a dog or move back to the midwest or end a relationship or come home early from a vacation (all things I’ve done) doesn’t make you a failure. It makes you more in tune with who you are. So long as you are making these decisions with intention and mindfulness, there is beauty to be had in owning your experience, making tough choices, and not giving an ounce of care to those who are judging you for those decisions. This is your life. Your one precious life. Don’t take it lightly. Live it for yourself. Change your mind. Try it again. Say you’re sorry. Make a Y turn. Rewrite your dreams. In the end, nothing is permanent, and beautiful openings can emerge from your own chosen endings.
Hi, I’m Jenna.
A yoga instructor, trained pastry chef, major book nerd, and former graphic designer. I have a zest for life and am passionate about continuously upleveling my growth – and bringing others along for the ride. My aim is to guide individuals in discovering themselves fully so they can walk through the world
100% self expressed.
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