creative self-care, personal essay, healing from trauma
Jennifer Newcomb Marine
How a Tiny, Terrified Dog Changed My Life

I carefully sat down on the squishy armrest and whispered to her. What happened to you, sweet girl? It must have been really scary, huh? But it’s okay, you’re safe here now. Everything’s going to be okay… You’ll see...

I tentatively stroked the top of her head in the darkness, waiting for the shivering to start. But she was still and quiet.

I kept talking. To my surprise, she rolled over and let me gently scratch her chest and tummy. We stayed like that for about twenty minutes. I kept my excitement in check so I wouldn’t scare her off, feeling like we’d make a real breakthrough.

But over the next several days, it was a delicate dance of letting her come to me. If I tried too hard to connect, she’d shrink back into a ball of fear. It was painful to see, not just because it’s hard to see any animal or person suffer like that, but also because I could relate.

How a Tiny, Terrified Dog Changed My Life
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How a Tiny, Terrified Dog Changed My Life

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How a Tiny, Terrified Dog Changed My Life

I carefully sat down on the squishy armrest and whispered to her. What happened to you, sweet girl? It must have been really scary, huh? But it’s okay, you’re safe here now. Everything’s going to be okay… You’ll see...

I tentatively stroked the top of her head in the darkness, waiting for the shivering to start. But she was still and quiet.

I kept talking. To my surprise, she rolled over and let me gently scratch her chest and tummy. We stayed like that for about twenty minutes. I kept my excitement in check so I wouldn’t scare her off, feeling like we’d make a real breakthrough.

But over the next several days, it was a delicate dance of letting her come to me. If I tried too hard to connect, she’d shrink back into a ball of fear. It was painful to see, not just because it’s hard to see any animal or person suffer like that, but also because I could relate.

Time Scarcity: why you'll always be creative "later"

The days are both long and short.

There is always time, whether it's five minutes to reorganize a messy counter, jot down an idea for a paragraph, or even pick out a new color to wear in your closet -- or an hour to write a blog post and have fun picking out my own pictures for it.

Our lives are full.

If we are blessed, they will stay that way, because that means we're really LIVING.

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This is what imperfect action looks like

My blog is not done. Some pages are barely finished. There's a downloadable PDF with a mistake. My mailing list isn't set up yet. This will be my one and only blog post, once I hit "publish." By all accounts, I should be waiting until everything is perfect to make this thing public.

Just look at all the notes I've taken - figuring out what I'm going to write about and how.

Have I brainstormed enough yet? No? Perhaps another 500 pages later, I'll be ready.

And that's nothing.

I didn't even include all the notes in my blog binder, where I have everything all divided up into neat little categories...