Paws and Reflect

I was with my ex the first time I tasted a peanut butter pie crust sundae. At that time he was not my ex, of course—he was my very new boyfriend. I was the perfect age to shout-sing Taylor Swift (when you're fifteen and somebody tells you they love you, you're gonna believe them) and mold my identity around everyone I liked, pushing against their boundaries in lieu of forming any of my own.It was a delicious sundae. I'd been to my hometown's local ice cream chain many times before—I still carry golden memories of using the uneven exterior beneath the walk-up window as a little kid rock climbing wall—but I'd never ordered anything except vanilla soft serve with krunch kote. The peanut butter pie crust was a revelation.It was his revelation.My ex knew about this delicious thing—hot fudge, peanut butter, graham cracker crumble perfection—first, and he shared it with me, and I felt that bonded us more deeply. Even when I ordered our favorite sundae without him present on the increasingly rare occasions I hung out with my high school best friend or sister, I thought about Matt. Peanut butter pie crusts were ours. Everything we did together, even just a single time, was ours. My world existed in shades of him.But then I left.I mean, it wasn't that simple, my departure. Those months, after so many years, were a snotty-teared mess. But finally I came out of “us” as “just me”, and even though we weren't yet married (I had to cancel the DJ and photographer, deposits lost) I found myself internally battling for custody.We didn't have property or pets or children. But we had our own version of a life, the kind college students can easily build: favorite restaurants and TV shows and memories. Prom photographs. Mutual friends. Peanut butter pie crust sundaes. We were too young when we started dating. (I was too young.) I'd yet to build my own sense of self, and he was too willing to act as my backstop, and so I became his shadow, his shape, his image—“Matt's girlfriend”, not “Haley as a person”.What was ours and what was his and what was mine?I wish I could tell you I ordered the damn sundaes and stopped thinking about him. That I still played “On My Way” by Phil Collins just because I liked it. That I said “these preferences are pretty tiny and trivial, anyway, and they don't have to have anything to do with him”. In reality? My stamina improved, and I jogged faster over time, but the memories stayed on my heels.When I started dating Sean, we went to our my beloved ice cream chain before I was ready. “We passed a soft serve place that sells one pound cones!” my new boyfriend announced when I arrived to stay with him and a few other friends at an up-north cabin. “We have to go!”“I grew up in Wausau! Of course I know Briq's,” I said. It still makes me think of Matt, I didn't.I told Sean to order the peanut butter pie crust. The employees made it wrong—no hot fudge—which was a disappointing introduction to the deliciousness. But I realized, sitting there with our friends as Sophie joked about how Sean can “do bad things to ice cream” (he did indeed order the one pound version), that to them peanut butter pie crust sundaes were Haley's recommendation. They were my preference. Just mine.It was a start.Still, over the years when we visited my hometown and ordered Briq's, stubborn and unwelcome recollections sometimes insisted on tagging along. You build new memories on top of old ones, you round out your life, but there's no rewrite button. Reclamation is a slow process.Until finally… the old foundation just crumbles. And you get in there to chuck out the debris and realize you breathe so much better without the moldy stench you'd somehow grown used to and erroneously accepted as a fact of life. You shout-sing from a later Taylor Swift album, now: I think I am finally clean.This past summer Sean and I started making homemade peanut butter pie crust sundaes. The recipe: Melt peanut butter and dark chocolate chips in a mug, stirring to a smooth consistency. Scoop a hearty amount of Häagen-Dazs vanilla bean (vanilla bean, not just vanilla) ice cream on top. Sprinkle crushed pie crust (we like to buy the miniature premade ones in a six pack) over the whole thing. Then savor, passing back and forth after every spoonful, sharing the joy.These sundaes are a new ours. They are not just an experience we happened to share once, to which I assigned unreasonable importance—they are an intentional creation inspired by old tastes and made even better. A tiny thing, to be sure, but a thing we built together.One of many, many things we built together. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

First drafted in Everglades National Park, after a week of mesmerizing nature experiences.Paddling a designated mangrove trail, I cringe as our inflatable kayak rubs the bottom of the pond. “We're stirring up the mud,” I worry aloud. “How many organisms call this mud home?” Sean shakes his head.We turn around shortly after. By this point we've already seen five alligators (one swimming parallel to us, disquieting agility on full display) and a dozen birds and too many fish to count. I'm in awe that this has been our Monday morning activity.I'm also wondering if it should have been.So often close creature encounters fill us with wonder—they allow us to more fully appreciate our fellow animals. But they are also, so often, one sided. What does the cardinal get from me peering closely except a modicum of discomfort? The Florida tree snails are dormant for the winter so my photography (in theory) doesn't stir their slumber, but still—I am here, in their world, leaning in. And I am clumsy and species-centric and unable to coexist without inadvertent harm.“Oh no, you scared him,” Sean said of the small toad I tried so carefully to step around on yesterday's trail. “Shoot, she ran away,” I echoed about the anole I paused too long to observe.How much of these reactions is normal? Creatures move toward and away from each other all the time. Perhaps I am not adding to their stress (the alligators certainly seem unbothered by my presence in their swamp); perhaps it's self-aggrandizing to think so. But perhaps I am. Perhaps I am layering harm upon small harm, weaving fear deeper into their nervous systems, making their already fraught existence harder, all out of a desire to love them.Love can hurt. Especially when it comes from a person.Little Me developed so much respect for the natural world by engaging with the natural world. That's the justification for practices—some worse than others, certainly—at organizations from SeaWorld to the tiny elephant sanctuary I called home after graduating college. Where do we draw the line? On our guided night hike in the Everglades, I was thrilled to see a nightjar illuminated by the ranger's flashlight—but guilt pinged within me, too, at the creature's small form huddled in the beam. Would we, me and Sean and five middle-aged couples, have felt less inspired if we hadn't gotten to see up close? Would the bird have felt less scared?Whose experience is more important, and do they have to interfere with each other, and how can we ever understand costs and benefits?These questions are top of mind thanks in part to Nerdy About Nature's recent post on whether outdoor recreation is a form of resource extraction. He thinks it is, and I largely agree. I also agree with the article's top comment: “outdoor recreation is a gateway to caring about the planet,” writes Nick Costelloe. “The more people engage with natural spaces, the more they'll care about them—and the more willing they'll be to advocate for climate solutions.”I'm just not sure what, exactly, ethical engagement with nature spaces ought to look like.This past fall we drove up a steep, bumpy road to the most beautiful dispersed campsite we've ever seen overlooking the Great Tetons. We carefully followed every National Forest Service guideline. No campfires. Don't stay more than five nights. Drive on previously used roads. Pack in what you pack out; leave no trace.I grinned almost every minute we were there. I threw wide my arms and teared up at the sunrise and leashed Scout the second we saw another animal or person. But afterward, despite being a perfect stickler for the rules, I still had to ask: Is it truly possible to leave no trace?One morning a fox trotted along the edge of our site. They paused, head raised, before darting away down the mountain. Neither we nor our dog pursued this breathtaking creature—but the canid knew, unmistakably, that we were there. Every living thing nearby knew we were there. How much of my own joy (and make no mistake: I experienced bright, bursting, overwhelming joy) is worth native flora and fauna's discomfort? How much do NFS restrictions, even when meticulously observed, actually mitigate human impact?How much could I love that mountain—that view, those creatures—if I hadn't breathed their same air?I don't know. It's easy to preach platitudes about respecting the environment. (Pick up trash, be bear aware, don't bend the rules, do what the organizations in charge tell you to.) It's harder to trust that these actions are good enough. And everything is exacerbated by the crisis facing American public lands under our current administration, worsening, it seems, by the day: staffing cuts, hiring freezes, harrowing sound bites to “drill, baby, drill”.Never has holding great wonder—the kind that inspires us to care, that doesn't allow us not to give a damn—about natural spaces been more important. Never has asking how we skew the ratio toward much more awe than harm. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

Virtue signaling:* Oxford Languages (labeled derogatory): the public expression of opinions or sentiments intended to demonstrate one's good character or social conscience or the moral correctness of one's position on a particular issue.* Wikipedia: Virtue signalling is the act of expressing opinions or stances that align with popular moral values, often through social media, with the intent of demonstrating one's good character.* Helpful Professor: ... actions that are more about posturing and impression management than actual action.Last week an Instagram commenter said I was virtue signaling on a post about off-leash dogs in on-leash areas. This is not that uncommon of a reaction. The “leash your dog” conversation continues to be more controversial than my past self ever imagined—I'm not entirely sure what other stuff (defensiveness, resenting urban restrictions overall, the struggle to read tone online?) comes up for people here, but the responses often seem bigger than the topic itself.As I should have predicted, this particular thread quickly devolved. I know I ought not to give strangers on the internet much of my time—especially after they've tried to insult me by making fun of people with disabilities (seriously?!)—but the experience did get me thinking more about virtue signaling: the words themselves, what we take them to mean, how we use them to talk about other people's behavior.And I'm considering some questions now.When someone accuses you of virtue signaling, it's not a compliment. But (if we take the words at face value for a minute) why is it inherently bad to signal—we're constantly relaying information to fellow humans—virtues we actually hold? Certainly it's harmful to look down our noses and write others off and shut conversation out. But in a world of overconsumption and division and literal fire, shouldn't we all talk about our values more? I am not ashamed of my virtues—I'm proud of my beliefs. Why would I not want to “signal” them to you and then hear about your own?Of course, it's hard to discern from a single post or comment section whether someone actually lives out their values. And preaching “just to sound good” is the red flag in definitions of virtue signaling as the term exists today. Virtue signaling is done with the intent of demonstrating one's good character and is more about posturing and impression management than actual action. (This is why it's often associated with “popular” moral positions—it's a way to fit in, at least shallowly. Not that popular things are always worthy of derision, but that's another essay.)So if our fundamental goal is to insist on our own loveliness? Yeah. Ew.My question is how we make that distinction in practice.Don't we all want to have (at least our personal vision of) good character? Don't we all want the people around us to see and believe in that character? Acting with public opinion as the primary interest is toxic and unproductive. (I used to struggle immensely with my own ego in the dog world, particularly when it came to Scout's reactivity training—and it sucked for everyone involved.) But is it truly possible to act with no interest in public opinion? We're social creatures. Of course I want you to think I'm good, or thoughtful, or reasonable, or something like that! Of course you want the same!I think this is where I'm arriving:Surface-level virtue signaling is shitty, particularly if it's inauthentic (professed values are not internalized and followed) and/or lacks nuance (I don't believe there's “objective” morality allowing us to insist other people make our own exact choices). But virtue signaling that includes an explanation of one's reasoning—by a person who lives their values earnestly—isn't a problem. I mean, it's not really virtue signaling at all. It's just… talking about what matters to us. Sharing where we're coming from. Discussing how we make decisions.I am aware I'm spilling too much ink about this. (Good thing blank document screens don't run out like pens.

Sean and I don't regularly wear wedding rings. (The ones we do have are cheap nontraditional bands.) Our ceremony was short and, to be candid, kind of not a big deal. He did not only see me in my dress before our vows—he actually found my dress in the first place. I kept my last name. We rarely celebrate anniversaries beyond a “hey, look at the date!” nod.I am unduly proud of the ways we eschew marriage norms—and I think I'm finally able to name why.I worried for a while that my feelings were some sort of petty self righteousness or a “look how I'm not like other girls!” desire to be special. (Which... ew.) But that doesn't track with the fact that I've felt truly, properly happy for all the people in my life who do embrace western relationship norms in their own ways. Like, I have never once wondered if my best friend's relationship is any less fulfilling or progressive or meaningful than mine because her ring is fancy gorgeous. I would never dream of telling my badass feminist colleague that taking her husband's last name makes her a slave to the patriarchy. Still, though: I loved that I wasn't doing these things.What gives?In my serious relationship before Sean, I relied on any and every surface-level signal that we were a couple. I needed evidence—traditional, obvious evidence—that our love was real. It wasn't just the big things like my fancy engagement ring (come to think of it, my ex spent more time talking about how he chose the diamond on the day he proposed than why he loved me) or our over-the-top anniversary presents. We also needed constant nicknames and good morning texts and social media posts. (We once had a huge fight after a road trip because I captioned an Instagram of us—just one of many from those two weeks—something simple instead of using it to profess my love.) We were that couple. You'd hate seeing us on your feed, using public posts to insist things we didn't even truly feel in a flawed attempt to grease the wheels of a squeaking, falling-apart relationship. (Sidebar: This habit made our breakup even harder because I'd spent so long convincing casual acquaintances we were great!! that they couldn't believe we'd actually had a billion problems. Ugh.)Anyway: I needed so much “evidence” of our love precisely because there wasn't, in reality, all that much love. I thought I could cover our failings with the right decor. What do you mean there's a massive gap in the floorboards? No no, it's nothing; we can hide it with a super fancy sofa!It's the exact opposite with Sean. I don't crave external signals or classic traditions to reinforce our commitment because I already know we're real. I believe in our love more than anything else—I have never doubted it, never felt the urge to mental-gymnastics something out of nothing.Saying no thanks to nice rings and elaborate rituals isn't a larger statement about how I think things “should” be done. (I do not believe there's one “right” way in basically any area of life. And obviously not everyone uses traditions to mask massive relationship problems, in which case… more power to you. My past self is jealous.) No, my pride in this regard is about me, as an individual, emphasizing the juxtaposition between where I used to be and where I am now.It's funny that the excuse I gave some family members for why our nuptials were so small (I already planned a big wedding and we didn't work out, I want my real one to feel as different as possible) turned out to be so centrally true. I love not doing these traditional things because I love not needing these traditional things.If you want them, though? That's a whole different story. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

This morning I find myself saying to Sean, not for the first time: “You know, whenever I build a task up in my head and then actually sit down to do it, it's easier than I imagined? Not sure why I put things off.”I am not proud of this recurring declaration.I've long been a bit of a procrastinator—usually motivated by perfectionism—who manages to rarely miss deadlines but consistently doubt the quality of what she turns in. I often feel like I don't have the resources or focus or ability to do something perfectly right now… but maybe I will tomorrow. Or the next day. Or, you know, when rubbing right up against the due date.This tendency got worse the first year we lived in our converted van. We were so busy with the logistics of a life on the road (and, admittedly, the associated joys) that I grew accustomed to putting tasks off before knocking them out in a late-night haze. I once set an alarm for three am to finish a copywriting assignment I'd had a full week to complete. (I mean, that's inexcusable.) Even just last fall, after I'd organized my life on the Todoist app and kicked my writing practice into better gear, I still occasionally fell into the habit. I revised my first piece for ROVA Magazine (an article I was so excited to share) up until the morning it was due.On the surface, everything is fine. I'm a functioning (perhaps even highly functioning) professional. Most of my clients and editors are happy to work with me; at least some of my quality concerns have more to do with imposter syndrome and overthinking than the actual work I submit.But too often—entirely too often—I carry the weight of an uncompleted task days longer than necessary. It infiltrates my ocean swims. It colors my interactions with Sean. It pushes me to maniacally read other people's words in hopes of forgetting that I am not (but should be) writing my own.I feel even worse about this impulse to put things off because I work from such a privileged position. The reasons I procrastinate are 1) I'm concerned about doing things well enough or 2) I'm distracted by living in the real world—basically never because I'm truly exhausted, lacking support, or bereft of the right resources. There are people producing amazing art and commentary and impact in astronomically more difficult situations than mine. My life is so cushy. I should be able to write an article about training rescue dogs in one damn sitting!Lately my procrastination takes a disguised form: Enthusiastically working on something that isn't due while ignoring a piece that is. It's increasingly rare that I put off a task because I'm lounging in the sun or burying my nose in a novel or scrolling social media. That's good—that's great!—but just because I'm writing doesn't mean I'm writing the most important thing.Of course, what's “important” is a whole discussion. Sometimes inspiration strikes in a moment I blocked off to finish work for a client and the romantic artist in me latches on with worry the idea will disappear before I can act on it. Sometimes this situation produces a piece I love, and that sense of accomplishment lifts me through the rest of the day (maybe even the rest of the week), and I'm happy in all the ways: creatively, logistically, professionally.Other times the inspiration is a red herring. Or too complex to tackle right away. And I can't even live under the illusion that I was being productive by spending my time on a half-baked, questionable premise instead of the clearly defined task begging for my attention.The solution here seems simple: Just do the thing. I know, logically, that I always feel better after doing the thing! Doing the thing rarely prevents me from also doing other things later on! Why is this a problem?!A whole bunch of reasons, I think: I'm a creatively minded person willing to ride whims. I have no semblance of a structured schedule. I've built rapport enough with my editors—and also am content enough with my life in general—that the stakes usually feel low. (And while I used to long for this level of comfort, there's no denying we sometimes need a fire under us to get going.)So I'm trying to light more controlled fires. In the upper right corner of my desktop, a digital sticky note displays my top six life priorities in order. I've set a rule—and asked Sean for enforcement help—that I'm not allowed to reschedule tasks on my to-do list unless there's an emergency. (Not wanting to put down an interesting book is not an emergency.) I'm reaching out to fellow writers to build a stronger craft community, something I've been lacking for too long. I am repeating, over and over, that “done and good enough is better than perfect”. I am setting more ambitious deadlines for client work—and communicating those deadlines to editors ahead of time so I have no way out.I am also giving myself grace, because I love this life I've built (and lucked into), and there's a reason I left my stable 9-5 in pursuit of greater flexibility. I do not need—and sure as hell do not want—to work all the time. I just want to work more effectively.And float on my back in the Atlantic without worrying about missing checklist ticks. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

We make it to our Harvest Host after an hour of thick traffic. I take Scout to pee, light my lavender candle, and luxuriate in the coziness of a rainy—and unpromised to anyone or anything else!—afternoon. I loved gallivanting around Miami with Evan and Marie. I loved our time in the Florida Keys and Everglades before that. But this is the first evening in ages where I have felt no pressure to do anything but simply exist inside my tiny home—and the first time ever, I think, where I'm getting a sensation that used to be common when we lived in houses and apartments. You know the one: You come back from a trip and organize a few things, and even though you enjoyed your adventure (and are probably sad it's over), there's this simple and comforting bliss in settling into your space.I inhale. I look at Scout sprawled on the bed next to me. We are not in paradise—we are in yet another parking lot, the same sort of environment we've spent a fourth of our nights in since moving into the van—but 1) we are undisputedly allowed to sleep in our vehicle here and 2) there is literally nothing to do outside. I feel complete security in my home coupled with complete lack FOMO.It is kind of dreamy.Only a few weeks into our van life experience, I remember sitting at a laundromat not far from Hot Springs National Park. It was raining then, too, and I was surprised by how easily I romanticized the moment—in fact, by how impossible it felt not to. Sure, we were squeezed in a small lot with strangers walking by. We were doing chores. But I was in my home on wheels! I was with Sean and Scout in the middle of workday hours! It was novel and exciting and cozy to have a personal oasis parked atop the flooding pavement.That's how it is again, now. And I've come to appreciate the sensation even more because by this point we have been places where our van's four walls don't promise unmitigated comfort. We're smart about where we park, and we take care to be respectful neighbors, and we've never been asked to leave—but that doesn't mean we haven't worried about the possibility. The last three nights in particular saw us paying for a privately owned lot in South Beach (under ambiguous restrictions) and doing our best impersonation of stealthy van lifers (difficult when your rig is schoolbus yellow and wears an internet satellite like a beret).So tonight feels like freedom. Freedom from “will anyone bother us? will we be bothering anyone?” concerns and freedom from “we are in the most gorgeous natural environment imaginable and it would basically be the eighth deadly sin if we didn't explore it to our maximum capacity” pressure.I'm not sure what it says about me and us and our lifestyle of choice that this is the most peaceful I've felt in a couple weeks, but I am perfectly pleased about it. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

“She doesn't require an ounce of management when people don't expect her to be a Labrador” — summing up Scout's ability to happily coexist with strangersWe just spent a long weekend with my brother-in-law and his girlfriend in Miami. After we bade them farewell, I found myself gushing to Sean about how perfect Scout is (“I mean, she's the most perfect creature to ever walk the planet, right?!”) and gushing to her (not that she understood, of course, though she did like my tone of voice) the reasons she deserves a big thank you. The people we love deserve a big thank you, too.So here's some gratitude.Scout Finch: Thank you for rolling with our chaos—for peeing in whatever random parking lot we bring you to next (and in all types of weather) and never barking at strange city sounds or passerby. Thank you for allowing us to adventure without you when needed. Thank you for boasting one of the strongest pet dog stomachs I've ever encountered. Thank you for, despite your intestines of steel, still not eating discarded sidewalk food. Thank you for loving our van home so much. Thank you for feeling safe and comfortable in your crate. Thank you for handling a few boring days unbelievably well for your breed's expectations. Thank you for welcoming new friends with a quick sniff and adorable wiggle followed by complete neutrality. Thank you for gracefully allowing those new friends in your house (I know it's not very big to share). Thank you for never demanding any sort of set routine.Friends new and old: Thank you for following instructions about interacting with our sensitive dog. Thank you for laughing when I make the (admittedly weak) joke that she's a liar when explaining that even if she sits directly in front of you with perfect sweetness, she'd prefer you didn't reach for her face. Thank you for humoring me when I over-analyze one of her quirks not for the first time. Thank you for understanding when we're on a schedule dictated by her bladder. Thank you for making everything so easy. Thank you for loving her, too—the most important extension of us—even when “love” looks more like reserved respect and short ball throws than the unlimited snuggles you might have first dreamed. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

Drafted four hours after sunset in Bahia Honda State Park on February 15th.It's clichéd to be inspired by the night sky, and yet getting to know the stars feels something like a revelation. Tonight I find Polaris without help even though the northern horizon is washed with artificial light. I think I might see the Milky Way, just a barely-there glow near Orion, and the internet confirms my guess when I look it up later. I can point Sean to Taurus without hesitation when he asks.This newfound, growing intimacy—between me and the universe—is exhilarating. I walk to the bathroom building with my neck craned, weaving across the pavement like a drunk even though we have yet to uncork our bottle of wine. I am affected by something simpler than alcohol, awash in the drug that touched my ancestors hundreds of thousands of years ago when they, too, looked up: wonder.All those specks of light, stark against the black, are pinnacles of awe and imagination and comfort. I am so small. Our universe is infinite. What is there to do but look and look and look? Point and exclaim and feel my heart beat and measure my breath and write about it all, clumsily, later?I keep realizing clichés are often clichéd because they're true. It's no accident that the night sky inspires me like it's inspired person after person since the dawn of our species. This is no boring, overused metaphor—no tired, oh-come-on experience.It's one of the realest things to ever stir my chest.I only regret that it took me 28 years to appreciate with depth. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

Today I'm struggling with the reality that sometimes when I say “I made a different choice” other people hear “so I think yours is stupid”.The messiness makes me think, vaguely, of Lauren Oyler's essay collection No Judgment. Oyler talks about how “no judgment” is a silly thing to say when the truth is we judge each other all the time. It's like adding “no offense” to not-exactly diffuse an inarguably offensive comment.But do we really judge each other all the time?I guess by the Oxford Languages definition, yes. We can't help but “form an opinion or conclusion about” everyone and everything we interact with. But those opinions aren't always negative. While I can't help but judge you, I am very rarely judging you. (Translation: While I can't help but compile an impression of who you are and how you live, I am very rarely thinking “this person sucks”.)The “my choices don't have to be the same as yours” idea first started coming up for me in the dog training world. Scout is a sensitive dog, so I approached her training—and still approach our daily life—differently than many friends with more exuberant companions. On occasion I still find myself in heated discussions (particularly when it comes to methodology nuances like the ethics of punishment… and whether we're referring to “punishment” in an operant conditioning context or a more colloquial way, which is a whole other essay) but most of the time I think I've got the nerdy open-minded dog owner thing down. If you are happy, and your dog is happy, and your choices don't hurt anyone else? Heck yes! (Listen: You can hear me cheering for you all the way from south Florida.) And it takes a lot to make me second guess the way Scout and I live now, while a few years ago it took literally nothing.But diversity of thought and experience is increasingly relevant in other areas of my life—areas I've spent less time sitting with and hold more insecurity about. Sean and I have become quite “nontraditional”. We've lived in a van for more than two years; we don't want to have kids; we're married, but I didn't take his last name; our wedding ceremony was led by a friend and took place on a crowded afternoon beach; we don't work full-time 9-5 schedules; I don't use shampoo or facial cleanser anymore; we have very few material belongings; we don't celebrate most holidays or exchange gifts; I could probably go on but even this list is enough to make me worried I'm ostracizing you.Some of these nontraditional choices are things we feel strongly about. We have spent ages talking about children, for example, and took intentional steps to not become parents. Others happened sort of on accident. There is no big logical reason giving each other holiday gifts hasn't become a lasting part of our relationship.But all of them can be hard to talk about. And no matter how much I assert—how much I believe—that we do not have to be the same to be supportive and kind and connected, I still sometimes feel scared diving into the ways my choices might differ from yours. What if I offend you? What if you think I am unreasonable?What if a misunderstanding stunts what could have otherwise been a great friendship?On the one hand, I enjoy feeling “different”. It would be dishonest to pretend otherwise—when Joy Sullivan wrote that as an ex-Evangelical she finds herself turned on by other people's judgment, I nodded so hard my neck twinged. Sean and I love being the “weird” aunt and uncle figures. (I have been working on a separate essay about what it means to be different for about a year now, trying to unspool my complicated emotions about “specialness”.)On the other hand, I want desperately to fit in. I only need a few fingers for the number of places—physical and situational—I've felt I truly belong, and on a bad day I don't think I fit even in those. Doing things differently from other people I admire can heighten this anxiety because so often we bond over shared ideas and habits and beliefs (even if they seem “little”). What if you throw me out because you are obsessed with skincare and I eschew most forms of it? What if you believe I am judging you for changing your last name because I vehemently kept mine? (I'm not, I swear!) What if being a loving, badass parent is so core to your identity that you're subconsciously hurt I don't want the same thing?Let me be honest: I struggle turning those questions around on myself. I think, tentatively, I am good at accepting the people I love. But one of the reasons I worry about how other folks receive me is because I worry about how I receive them—at least in private. Am I properly imagining their lives and situations? I mean, probably not, right? That sort of clarity seems downright impossible, so the poisonous voice in my head declares that we must all be falling short and that trying to stretch is too frightening, too unlikely, to be worthwhile.I want to be unapologetically myself. (“Just be you!” boasted a hand-painted sign in a coffee shop this morning, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. I won't get into the confounding variables about who “we” even are, at our cores.) But I also want to be liked. I want to be “different” enough to be interesting but not so different we don't have a strong basis for connection. In short: I don't want to piss anybody off. I don't want to get pissed off.And that is a problem.Wanting to embrace nuance and focus on the things that unite us is lovely, but asking for—and so freely offering—idiot compassion is not. It's okay to have a point of view. It's okay to express that point of view. It's okay to trust in the strength of my real, honest relationships—and to bet on new ones, too, give all these bonds the chance to handle division. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

I am once again thinking about the fact that Scout is going to die. Not soon—not if all goes as planned, if we continue to be so lucky in our lives together—but not in a distant unimaginable future, either. She will die and I will have to go on without her (how?) and my habit of scrolling through old photos, soaking in memories, will feel different than it does now.It already feels like grief just to realize how much the three of us have changed since I adopted our shy-but-sweet stray heeler. Scout's body shape has sagged. Her ears and whiskers are graying. Sean and I have new wrinkles around our own eyes.Of course core parts of our lives are the same—we love each other; we have great fun; we prioritize play—but I still feel vaguely like I'm blinking in confusion on my way out of the movie theater or waking from an accidental nap. How much time has passed, you say? Where am I, again?All this (*gestures wildly*) is amplified tonight because Sean and I reminisced. Reminiscing itself is a common occurrence, but this time we went through his photo library instead of mine—and nearly every image on his phone is of Scout. He's not much of a photographer by default, but he always listens when I, with hands full or camera out of reach, implore him to “take a cute photo of the pup”.There are so many moments I'd forgotten. (Scout sitting by the front door of our newly purchased house in Florida while Sean hung out of the attic, renovation dust coating everything; the wonky wall climb setup we tried to build when I thought I'd get really into GRC Dog Sports; her fabric beehive toy stuffed with small squeaky toys; the ancient pink frisbee she dug up in the yard that I later threw on the roof not once but twice.) There are so many more I'll never remember without images to help.It's not that I want to go back in time. Our life today is my favorite version—I have never felt more loved and steady and proud.But my contentment exists alongside heavy sadness. I miss my 21-year-old self. I miss Scout, fresh from the humane society, even though I thought her reactivity training might break us. I miss Sean introducing me to bands I'd never heard.I am aware in some back part of my brain that these emotions might be a cliched I'm-approaching-30-ish thing. Next month Sean turns 28—I join him in July. I've been drafting a longer essay about defining myself as young for so long and realizing that is a fragile, ill-advised core identifier. (Olivia Rodrigo, parasocial little sister of my dreams, once again sings in my head: When will I stop being great for my age and just start being good?)Or maybe it's that we've been moving for more than two years in our van now—and while I like to think I'm adept at reflecting the whole way through, sometimes momentum carries you until a quiet moment like tonight when its croon fades beneath time's tempest and suddenly you are almost drowning. Not quite drowning; you're good at swimming, and you've always loved the water. But almost.Earlier I asked Sean if he ever grieves the past even though right now is great. He said of course. (Then he made some joke about missing when his body, which can still easily run seven or eight miles in the southern heat, was more nimble. Leave it to him to help me see how ridiculous I'm being.)We've done a lot of living in our six-plus years together, me and that boy-man and our dog. A lot of living and a lot of figuring and a lot of feeling. We have more to do. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

Drafted in Long Pine Key at Everglades National Park on February 12th, as a male and female cardinal danced outside the van's open doors.Catherine Raven, a solitary biologist in the mountains of Montana, wrote about befriending a wild red canid in her memoir aptly titled Fox and I.The most magical moment in the book occurs one night when Fox brings his kits—baby foxes! I nearly squeal with delight imagining a rough version of the scene—to Raven's cabin. While he settles for a nap, she watches his progeny tumble around and atop each other, close enough to touch. They are illuminated by the moon and awash in fresh air.Afterward she talks about assigning value to these events. Raven gives up so much—close human connection, quick access to resources, career opportunities—to live the way she does. Are the sacrifices worth it? What would she trade for another night of fox kits?Nearly everything, she answers.Me too, I think. Of course it's presumptuous to compare my life directly to Catherine Raven's—she is infinitely more badass than I am—but the last two years primed me to understand her calculus. We've given up dozens of previous staples to travel full time in a converted van. On occasion it is exhausting. But when you ask if the sacrifices are worthwhile? I do not hesitate: Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.I have never witnessed a fox-kit moon, but I have fallen asleep to wolf howls outside Yellowstone National Park. I have heard bats echolocating—rare, these clicks audible to human ears—just above my head in Utah's desert. I have gasped at Florida tree snails, Liguus fasciatus, shining in their narrow Everglades range.I see the Milky Way so often I almost forget how precious the sight has become in our artificially lit human world. Lately I take pride in knowing, without having to think, the current phase of the moon simply because I've spent so many recent nights outside. This morning I stayed in bed for half an hour counting bird songs through our open back doors. Yesterday Sean and I ambled a boardwalk trail more slowly than my past self could have imagined, gasping at the smallest air plants you've ever seen and strangler figs' wild acrobatics and white lichen decorating tree trunks in a pattern reminiscent of my hometown's dairy cows.I do not always know where I am going to sleep, if we can park without disturbance, when I will next find a fully stocked grocery store. It is scary to get sick on an island in another country thousands of miles from the place you once called home and only hope the local pharmacy can help. We constantly befriend the world around us—try to, anyway, balancing our own curiosity with the removed reverence fellow creatures deserve—but always through the ache of missing our human friends, longing for the ability to call them up last minute and ask if they want to meet for a beer.I hurt, sometimes: physically, emotionally, deep in my chest.But my sense of wonder grows. Lights up with the fireflies, sprints with the deer, dives on the ospreys' outstretched wings. It is a salve for the sacrifices' sting—and I would trade even more for moments like this.Passages I highlighted in Fox and I* Page 22: You don't need much imagination to see that society has bulldozed a gorge between humans and wild, unboxed animals, and it's far too wide and deep for anyone who isn't foolhardy to risk the crossing. As for making yourself unpopular, you might as well show up to a university lecture wearing Christopher Robin shorts and white bobby socks as be accused of anthropomorphism. Only Winne-the-Pooh would associate with you.* Page 34: I wasn't trying to emulate normal people, but I did like knowing what they were up to.* Page 233: In the twenty-first century, everyone wants everything to be natural—with a few exceptions: medicine, transportation, energy, communication, televisions, wrinkles, cell phones, bad eyes, weak hearts, worn knees, small boobs, old hips, indoor temperature. The more we humans pamper ourselves with manmade toys and tools, dressing in polypropylene, Gore-Tex, and nylon fleece and availing ourselves of dentures, braces, statins, vaccines, diet pills, hearing aids, and pacemakers for everyone over the age of seventy-five, the more we demand that unboxed animals stay natural. Like a seesaw with humans on one side of the fulcrum and wildlife on the other, we sink further from a natural life and force wildlife closer to it. Our pursuit of the natural life is as vigorous as it is vicarious.* Page 245: Those of us who have barnacled ourselves to inhospitable places may be trying to avoid people not because we do not like people, but because we love the things that people destroyed. Wild things. Horizons. Trolls.* Page 265: Looking back, I would say that when a person thinks they are wrong for doing something that feels right, well, then, the definition of wrong needs to shift.* Page 293: lack of imagination is not a career choice, it's a personality crisis. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

Written on February 7th in late-afternoon shade at Everglades National Park, my keyboard clicks barely audible above the rhythm of pileated woodpeckers.Reading Maybe You Should Talk to Someone makes me realize (not for the first time, but I'm terrible at internalizing this morsel) the obvious: There is no finish line. There will never be a finish line. No streamers, no cheers, no clear-cut you did it, well done (note the past tense) because until I die, I will still be doing.Sean and I used to talk about “moving the goalposts” in regards to Scout's fear reactivity. Those first months after I realized the extent of her behavioral problems, I told every trainer we consulted with that I just wanted to take her for a walk—a boring neighborhood walk—without her freaking out and embarrassing me.Eventually we could go on walks. They weren't seamless, but they were possible, and I yearned for more possibilities. Now I want to go on busier walks, longer hikes. Now I want to sit at a brewery, a coffee shop, the restaurant near our apartment complex. Now I want to go on outings with other dogs. Now I want trick titles. A Canine Good Citizen certificate. Engaged games of tug in distracting environments. Twenty thousand Instagram followers. A more polished narrative.Mostly, what I wanted with Scout was the same thing I want in all areas of my life: to be seen. Not just observed, but seen, and specifically seen as successful. Each time we made progress, the line for “success” moved with us because there was always someone ahead doing it better—and our past selves fell further behind, failing to remind me just how far we'd come unless I actually sat down, took out the binoculars (read: scrolled my camera roll or Instagram memories), and tracked their blurred forms.I rarely think about life with Scout feeling different now. It's not that we crossed a finish line—we didn't—but that I've come to see our journey as something beautiful and flawed and ongoing. As the end of our shared life approaches, faster each year, I run from finality and can't believe I ever craved it. If we finish all the struggles, then eventually we will finish the joy. I never want our time to be past tense.Why is this hard to translate to the rest of my experiences? Haven't my insights about the pet world—training and emotions and optimization and all the rest—always fit rather perfectly into my growth as a human being beyond the “dog nerd” label?I hold the knowledge itself: Be present. Life is a series of nows. Don't burn the future to stay warm. Sometimes I act on the knowledge, relishing the sun's warmth or Sean's skin or the fact that I can still at 27 lose myself in a story like I did as a kid.But often I live at odds with this thing I express as a tenet. I act as if there is always a finish line, and it's just around the next bend, and once I finally cross it I can breathe, I can sleep, I can relax without guilt—I can settle into my life, I can hold my own against the world, I can love myself.Once I leave my nine-to-five marketing agency job. Once I land regular freelance clients. Once we move into our converted van. Once I make arbitrary-number thousand dollars a month. Once I finish the first draft of my book. Once I finish the second draft of my book. Once I get published in a magazine I admire. Once I have arbitrary-number “real” bylines. Once I find an agent for my book. Once my book is published.But I know from meeting some of these milestones that I can't hang satisfaction on the others. If I do publish a book and it's well received? I will surely stack another goal atop its podium. If it doesn't touch people the way I hope? I will punish myself with more hoops to jump through and the futile promise that once I clear them, then I can feel successful. Not now, though. Never now.Because I am ostensibly a minimalist—my material belongings are few—I have convinced myself I do not struggle with our society's “more more more” mantra. I mean, I travel full time without much in a converted van! I haven't worked a “traditional” job in three years! I watch almost every sunrise! My physical space is less than seventy square feet (and I basically never complain about that) and I know at least a few people look up to me as a model of peace and contentment.How could I have a problem with wanting?Well, goes the too-simple but too-true answer, because I am human. Because I am a creature. Because I will never carve perfect, unchanged, permanent meaning out of my life—I will never finish my own story the way I sometimes finish an essay thinking wow, that wrapped up rather nicely. My accomplishments, my wants, myself will never be wrapped up. Isn't that the beauty of being alive?I don't want to be done.And yet I do with so many things. I want to be done so I can be loved. Maybe the ultimate item on my checklist is separating the two. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

A couple walks two small dogs past our campsite. “Morning!” I reply to the man's warm hello.I give Scout a treat, not because she needs it (there are still times where our use of food is more management than reward) but because it is a beautiful calm morning and she is a beautiful calm dog. “She's so good,” croons the woman as they pass, chihuahuas' legs working overtime to pull ahead. “Ours aren't quite so composed.”I laugh with her, give a final wave. And think to myself that even all these years later—and when it's far from the first time—I still glow when a stranger tells me Scout is well-behaved. Composed. Good.She is all those things nowadays. But most of all I think she's happy. Scout is able to be well-behaved and composed and good because she is fulfilled and trusted and understood.“We never scold her for anything anymore,” Sean remarked the other day. He's right—we never need to.Well, almost never. My standards shrink as we all age. But the love only grows. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

Clad in my bucket hat, saltwater dripping from day-old braids, I make Sean follow me outside for a celebratory photo. “You want a picture of the pie here?” he asks, slightly incredulous as I try to balance the melting treat on uneven gravel. It's heavier than you'd expect.“Yes,” I reply. “My key lime pie in our keys campsite!”Later he sends the picture to his mom. She says it looks delicious—and it is.Let vacation begin.I can't get over the view from our bed. I take entirely too many photos (Future Me will have a problem cleaning them out) trying to capture the awe—sun-bright awe—that my house is parked in a place like this. My backyard is a rocky shoreline. My kitchen rustles with an ocean breeze. My eyes can't drink it all in.Our campsite is Scout's dream, too. No matter where she is—claiming her yellow lawn chair, curled in the front cab, sprawled on our bed—she is immersed in fresh air.We breathe deeply, all three of us.“What a faith-in-humanity moment,” I say to Sean, finally unclenching my jaw.Shortly after we arrived at Bahia Honda State Park, an off-leash golden retriever barreled into our campsite. Sean tried to intercept while a boy looked on from the road. “Please get your dog!” I hollered, darting to my left to match the creature's swerve.The boy's mother appeared at a leisurely stroll. “She's friendly! She's really friendly,” promised this woman I'd never met (and had no reason to trust).“My dog's been attacked before and isn't,” I called. “Yours can't be in our site.”The next minute blurs a little, even in such recent memory. I know I body blocked the retriever again while her owner tried to attach the leash. Finally, oversized adolescent paws scratching my thighs, we succeeded.“She's only eight months old,” the woman said, a bit pleadingly.I felt myself flush. Scout had done well—only barked once, stayed lying down on her blanket, knew her humans would handle it—but this was not how I envisioned the start of our vacation. My voice had an edge: “That's not an excuse.”“I'm not making excuses,” the other owner half-snarled before stomping away. “I'm sorry.”I could feel my heartbeat in my fingertips. Sean hugged me; Scout asked to play; we tried to move on. Then I realized the woman and her dog and her son were our immediate next-door neighbors.Then I realized they were also the campground hosts.Is this a bad sitcom? I texted my mom, venting frustration. It is not encouraging when the people in charge of a shared space's rules (like, you know, keeping your dog on a leash and under control) are the very ones violating them.I buzzed with anxiety until, as Sean removed a raw neck bone from the freezer for Scout and I started thinking about our own dinner, the off-leash-neighbor-campground-host family again appeared in our site. Sans dog this time.The woman had a special treat for our heeler. Her husband offered a soft handshake. Their boy rode a bright bicycle. I've never received such a sincere apology—I've never witnessed, so clearly, the results of a stranger pausing to consider their impact after the fact.“That must have been so scary for you,” she said simply.“Thank you,” I replied, meaning it.Their dog never ran at us again.It is not uncommon for people to comment on our campsite as they walk by. They like the van's bright color; they love when Scout curls in a lawn chair of her own. (For introverts, we certainly aren't inconspicuous.)This morning a woman with arms of tattoos asks if our dog's name is Macaroni. What? She clarifies with a grin: Then we could refer to her and the van, together, as “macaroni and cheese”.Sean and I burst into laughs as she walks away, equal parts bemused and delighted. “That's near the top of the ‘best comment ever' list,” I declare. He agrees.I have worked ahead—client work, the stuff that pays part of our bills—so I can avoid email and Webflow and Canva here on the ocean's edge. It feels wrong to be lit by a computer screen when I could be lit by the sun.My Kindle's glow is different. I read three books in three days: lying on our bed, sitting under blue sky, stroking Scout's fur. I read in my head while walking to the bathroom building (a few neighbors look on, confused) and aloud to Sean while he cooks breakfast (pancakes, mostly) and under my breath as the evening colors fade.I wanted to live inside a book, wrote Ann Hood in her Morningstar memoir. How lucky I am to do just that.I am still damp with saltwater. Sand coats my feet—more determined than I after two rounds of attempted toweling—and I realize I don't even mind that our rug is a noticeably different color than it was two months ago.This is pure luxury, I think. Lavender lotion on gently tanned skin after a day of fresh air. What more could anyone need?I choose a postcard with a cactus—Organ Pipe National Monument—even though the landscape is nothing like our current humid world. I'm drawn to the simple shapes. I want to think simple thoughts.Next to me Sean hand-solves a calculus problem his boss sent him “just for fun”.Is this balance?I sit, cross-legged, at the edge of our bed. My face meets the breeze. I can see more of the sky if I crane my neck forward, and I let my eyes adjust—I know, from two nights of sleeping with the back doors open, exactly where Orion's belt will appear.Sean brings me decaf dark roast with whipped cream. As I lean against the foot of the bed, legs toward our pillows to ensure the best sunset view, Scout sprawls to my right. “Can you get my phone?” I call to the front of the van. “I just need the camera. To capture this moment.”This evening world is so quiet. I'm nearly done reading The Darkness Manifesto, and I'm not sure I've ever felt so excited for the night—for the bats, for the stars, for the sounds. For the stretching increments between “last light” and “full dark”.For my newfound ability to appreciate them.I painted my toenails when I was in Wisconsin, while my niece napped and wouldn't ask to make her own mess with the bottle. Now the bright-orange squares peek above the water—satisfying contrast against an impossibly blue backdrop—as I float in gentle waves.I'm not sure how long I lie there. (Sean tells me I'm lucky to float; he, too dense, always sinks.) I feel dizzy when I climb back on shore, struggling to reconcile the firm sand with the water's give.It's not a problem. I just wade back out.Scout tries to eat the cucumbers off my eyes. How can I expect her to understand food that is not food? I laugh so hard I snort; she wags back hopefully.“You're an idiot,” Sean and I tell her, often. The words mean so many other things: you are perfect, you bring us joy, we love you more than anything.I never want her to change.We are on this jog for a stupid reason: I saw a sculpted woman on the rocks late this morning and felt, crushingly, that I was not enough like her. Jiggly, I asserted to Sean, pointing at my triceps. He sighed. “Please don't say ridiculous things.”But now that we're moving—feet brushing cracked pavement, shoulders sweating in humid air—I don't feel “jiggly” at all. I feel strong. I feel chastised. I feel so damn lucky to watch the sun dip behind the water's edge.We detour to the sandy beach when we're done. I sprint to the edge, trust fall in the water, nearly forget to close my eyes before diving under each wave. We stay, quietly—nothing needs to be said—until Sean is shivering and we cave to the promise of homemade ramen in the van.I eat a huge bowl.I pick my way around hermit crabs—too many to count—with a lawn chair draped over my shoulder. We are finally heading to the shallow bay we keep walking by, the one tucked along the road with a view of the old railroad bridge, for sunset. (And civil twilight. Maybe nautical and astronomical, too, if thoughts of Scout snuggling by herself don't call us sooner to bed.)The clouds put on less of a show than they did last night—we watched yesterday's sunset from the van's front windshield on our way to the dump station for a gray tank emergency—but somehow the evening is still more beautiful than I imagined. I inhale. An osprey squawks, perches on the sandbar a dozen feet to our left. Each passing moment reveals a new star.I stop trying to chase my anxiety away and instead invite it to sit with us, share our snacks, sip from Sean's thermos of decaf with cream. I sing “Of Love and Life” in my head. The song sticks with me all night, even after we've waded back to shore (without stepping on a single sea creature) and crept to camp in the dark. I sing it to Sean and Scout as we pile atop each other in bed.“Hear me out, take your time, watch the setting sunTake your hands out of your pockets, feel the water runDon't worry about tomorrowAnd yesterday is gone”Sometimes a stranger's poetry seems written just for you.Sean and I walk through the small restaurant's door. Old-school entrée photos obscure the walls, captioned in Spanish; I feel a bit sheepish when the cooks' replace their background chatter with “do you need an English menu?” as we reach the front of the line.It's a glorious day: pure sun, eighty degrees, shallow blue-green ocean on each side of the highway. Melancholy laced the morning as I thought about leaving the keys. We'll be back soon (an incredible delight) but I've always struggled with endings—even the simple ones.All that messiness dissipates with my first bite of tamale. We pass our Cuban coffee back and forth across the picnic table, Sean's gentle grin—the soft one, the one that reminds me of his shyer college self—igniting my own. After this we have more local cafes to visit as we make our way toward Homestead (where home for the night will be a dingy Cracker Barrel parking lot). “A restaurant crawl,” Sean proposed before we left our campsite, doing what he always does.“Thank you,” I say now. “For making today feel more like an adventure than a goodbye.” Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

I meet my younger self for coffee. (She still only drinks chai tea.)How can I leave? she asks. This must be as good as it gets.I know she wakes up at three am gasping the opposite: This can't be all there is.It isn't.She dreams of good enough. She looks so small. She wonders how anyone can love her, and I'm ashamed of my flicker of agreement: I don't tell her I look back as a stranger thinking thank god we are not the same. I sit around a campfire with her college friends and roast them—lovingly—trying to ask why they stuck around.What made you stick around?She's engaged. I'm married. There is a lifetime of pain between those sentences, landmarks she can navigate only if she stops trying to write herself into existence and starts trying to live a life worth writing about—She isn't there yet.She's here, checking her phone the instant it pings atop the table. He needs a picture of who she's with (they'll fight about this later) but won't tell me the truth so I won't tell her the obvious.You're not in love! I want to scream. This isn't normal.She already knows.My world is ending, she breathes, and for once it isn't drama. She is about to tidal wave her future, cascade hurt in all directions, collapse the precarious foundation of an unexamined life—I tell her she'll build a new one.Look, I smile, hands outstretched. Look how I've built a new one. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

When a woman you once called a friend marries the man who once abused you, what are you supposed to feel?Anger? Rage that she chose him and his transgressions—things she knew about, you told her, she was there for some of it firsthand—over you?Sadness? Despair that he snagged and manipulated and convinced her of the same half-truths and full-lies you once believed yourself?Happiness? Relief that everyone has grown and this is a truly good thing—grace toward his past self, her past self, your past self?Do you assert your own years-old pain? Do you smile blandly when their nuptials arise in conversation with an acquaintance as if you haven't thought about it at all? Do you stalk the internet—fully aware that it's degranged—to see who joined the celebration? (When the pictures load, do you feel betrayed?)Do you scream that your experience was real, give credence to memories that still infiltrate the occasional nightmare, shout in step with Taylor Swift: I was there, I remember it all too well? Do you force yourself off Facebook and into the present moment? Do you look at your own husband from the passenger seat and shudder with guilt about spending a single second dwelling on life before you loved him?I do all the above.I'm embarrassed that I know my ex got married last month. But I do—and if that's not enough on its own, I even knew before the occasion arrived. Worse: I thought about his wedding a few times the day of. Has the ceremony started? Would I recognize all the faces in the room? Is anyone there in central Wisconsin thinking about me the way I'm wondering about them?While the guy who once took a knee to give me a diamond ring promised to love someone else for eternity, I was hiking with my own spouse and his brother through a bed of crisp leaves. Later we went dancing on broadway in Nashville. Sean spun me around, the band's vocals flooded the room, and blips of remembering my ex fell few and far between our grins—but I was surprised they were there at all. I thought I'd banished them from my waking hours (and finally, mostly, from my dreams) ages ago.I believe I'm supposed to wish him well. I like to think I am a Big Person with a forgiving heart—kind and empathetic and reasonable above all else—but my suddenly conscious insistence that I am better than my ex might be the very thing that makes me worse. I have no idea what his internal life is like anymore. (I'm not sure I did when we were together.) I want to hope he's grown, that he is no longer jealous and controlling, that he and his now-wife are a healthy match—and yet I find myself actually hoping, sickeningly, that he treats her the same way. That he continues to be as bad as I remember him. That the problem was not me.Because if my ex has become a loving husband to someone else, then I could have been the darkness.Is this what prompted my maniacal, toxic stalking? How I ended up on someone's girlfriend's aunt's Instagram account hoping to catch a gleam of a wedding dress, of my ex in a tux, of the rager it seems they threw? I've joined a legion of mad women. I know I am in good company, I know I am only human, I know it is okay (maybe necessary) to feel these things—but I hate myself for it all the same.I hate myself for still hating him.I have spent years questioning what counts as “abuse”. If it's presumptuous of me to use the term when others have experienced worse and endured more. If the fact that so many shared connections still cavort with him—even my own grandma comments on his Facebook posts—means it couldn't have been so bad, really, I must be making things up in my head. (After all, that's what he told me multiple times when we were still together.) I am dramatic, I am weak, I am vindictive. Years later his voice assigns me these identities within my own head.I know I can't forever hold another human being to hurt they caused only once upon a time. I know multiple things can be true at once. I know cementing my ex as villain will never be a cure; insisting I was victim can only hold me back.I know I know I know I know. But I also feel. The two do not always get along. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

Inspired by a conversation with a friend and Joanna Bagniewska's A Modern Bestiary.“Would you go to Mars?”I hesitated. “Safety guaranteed,” he added, tone suggesting an obvious answer. (Who wouldn't want to go to space?)“I couldn't.”There are no creatures on Mars: no fireflies, no frogs so small you can't believe they exist, no rare snails on the edge of a hot spring's pool. There are no sleepy dogs to welcome you home, no grizzly bears across the river, no foxes carrying prey. How could I smile in a world without scrub jays? Sans squirrels? Bereft of deer?I want to be an animal among animals. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

Late last night, sitting around a friend's kitchen table, the conversation turned to relationships.“When did you know Sean was the one?” Ari asked. While I'm skeptical about the idea of the one in general, I said it might have been New Year's Eve nearly six years ago.As 2018 slipped away, I too loudly told a mutual friend “I would marry Sean tomorrow” (not realizing Sean himself was listening to the conversation above the party din). We'd been dating for just four months, and the whole thing—me calling off my abusive engagement the previous spring, us only being 21, our collective teetering between college and beyond—was a lot.It is of course a good thing we didn't get married the following day. I am lucky I threw my bedraggled heart at someone who not only encouraged but insisted upon my independence first, a partner who did not let me lose myself—the self I was just beginning to truly find, to intentionally create—in him.But I meant what I said six years ago, at least in spirit. And in telling this to our friend I realized that a story that used to embarrass me (like yikes Haley, slow your roll!) now makes me vaguely proud. After the very worst year of my life, I was open and willing to bet all over again, to love all over again—to hurt all over again—and I do not regret my past self's zeal. She was idealistic and naive, that was absolutely part of it, but she was also brave on purpose.I want to keep maturing. I'm glad my love for Sean is different and wiser and better now than it was on that drunken evening.I also want to keep being brave on purpose. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

Behind me at the coffee shop stands a man in a gray shirt with white letters. “Anti human,” reads the top line. “Pro dog,” completes the bottom.I almost laugh. I want to be the type of invested dog person who can still chuckle at jokes meant to be benign; who friends don't hesitate to send viral animal videos out of fear I'll latch onto questionable body language; who is not, in short, a killjoy. It is a funny shirt if you take it in the right way, only a few steps removed from “tell your dog I say hi” (we saw that bumper sticker yesterday) and on par with “dogs welcome, people tolerated” (the doormat of pet stores and vet clinics across the country).But this year more than any other I've committed to seeing the ties between human and animal welfare. You can't be anti human and pro dog, not really, because domestic dogs evolved specifically to live with people. Their success is tied to ours at the grand scale (they live everywhere we do, their population has grown with ours) and at the minute (the better off a given pet owner, the better off their animals).I was first exposed to this idea of “helping people helps pets” in Bronwen Dickey's Pit Bull: The Battle Over an American Icon. Nearly three years after I read Dickey's allusions to a broken rescue system, Carol Mithers more clearly sketched the landscape of saviorism in Rethinking Rescue. “Animals in shelters don't necessarily belong to humans who didn't love them, but to those who lacked resources, chiefly money,” she insists in the book's introduction. “There's a difference between protecting animals and blaming humans without resources for failing to care for them.”When I read “anti human, pro dog” I think of well-intentioned but misguided rescue workers who tear beloved pets from people without housing. I think of shelter biographies that invent stories of abuse and neglect to make surrendered animals more adoptable. I think of my past self vilifying strangers to retain a sense of moral high ground when all I actually stood upon was compounded harm.“Sis, it's not that deep,” I imagine a Gen Z-er somewhere scoffing. Maybe it's not. Maybe some of us are “anti human, pro dog” because we think puppies are better than people in a pure way. Certainly this was the intent of whoever designed the shirt in question—I doubt they were trying to say “humans are the cause of all worldly woes and do not deserve our support.” They just wanted to signal “I'd rather be around my dog than these strangers out in public.”I relate to that particular sentiment. Left to my own devices, I do prefer the company of nonhuman animals over that of most people, and I don't think there's anything wrong with me. Humans (like domestic dogs!) have a remarkable ability to form bonds with different species. We're also individuals with our own experiences. I regularly function through a haze of social anxiety, and connecting with living beings who aren't people—and therefore can't hold me to confusing and overwhelming and contradictory standards of modern human interaction—feels liberating.But “I'm often more comfortable around animals” is not the same as “I am anti human.” I understand that people are necessary to care for this other dependent species I love—and I recognize that humans have inherent value of our own. I am a social member of a social species, and the sense of community that gets me through so many days (even when I feel it most intensely with Scout) would fundamentally not exist without human support.“Anti human, pro dog.” It's just a shirt. I assume I have a hell of a lot in common with the guy wearing it. (Although I don't quite laugh before retreating to my corner table to write these thoughts, I do smile in his direction.) But I wouldn't wear the slogan myself. “When people say, ‘It's just words' as a way to dismiss the power of language, you should be suspicious,” writes Anne Curzan on page 34 of Says Who? “Words often have consequences,” she says.Maybe I'll get a shirt printed with that. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

“A dog like that is too high energy for a small space.” “It's cruel to keep an animal in a van.” “Dogs need yards.” “[Insert other skeptical comment here.]”Living in a van with a sensitive dog isn't simple. We all made sacrifices when we hit the road in January 2023—Scout included. While my partner and I discussed our plans for months, daydreamed for years before that, and knew exactly what nomadic life would entail (on paper, anyway) our heeler came along for the literal ride. Sure, we slowly acclimated her to our rig. We spent hours parked in our old house's driveway. We eased into this new home like every previous stationary apartment. But eventually we backed out one final time, confining her in the travel crate beneath the bed, and she didn't get any say in the matter.Scout's given up some of her favorite enrichment toys because they proved too difficult to clean without access to unlimited hot water. Sometimes we can't find her regular food brand and she has to adjust last-minute when the nearest specialty store is more than 100 miles away. It's harder to fill her epilepsy prescription given phenobarbital is a controlled substance and we always pick it up from a different location (dear pharmacy technicians: I promise I am not sketchy—just a nomad!) which results in necessary detours of extra hours or even days sitting in urban parking lots.We've given up privacy. Step outside our front door and we're in public, full stop, unless parked truly in the backcountry. (Even then the land isn't “ours”—and fellow campers have been known to appear out of nowhere with their own dogs.) Well-meaning strangers sometimes walk right over and ask for a tour. Window covers and white noise can't fully mask the chaos that is parking on Manhattan's Upper West Side or a downtown Madison street. Scout used to have a consistent, familiar backyard in which to sunbathe—a sanctuary carved out of the busy world just for her—and now might get nothing more than a corner of NYC sidewalk and a plea, in my most hopeful voice, to please use the bathroom so we can get inside and lock the doors and go to sleep. It's harder to play in the living room on rainy days. We no longer set up indoor food searches. She has fewer toys with less variety. She hasn't had a proper bath in almost two years.Physical space, of course, is what we've given up the most. Scout once had her own room in our house. Today? Her travel crate is small because that's what will keep her safe in a crash—but accident potential isn't on her mind when she wonders why she can no longer sprawl on her side for a nap. She can't lie underfoot in the kitchen without almost-certain odds of being stepped on or stumbled over. Her choice of sleeping spots, once nearly limitless, now comes down to three: Our bed, her crate, or a front cab chair.So yes. Our cattle dog has given up many things she used to love.She's also given up things that held us back.When we moved into our yellow van, we lost some comfort—but in the process bade farewell to monotony. We traded the same ol' walking route at a nearby park for fresh smells across the country. We gave up long hours apart while my partner and I worked traditional office jobs to spend nearly all day every day together. We've forgone artificial training setups (and admittedly stressful group classes) in favor of real-world experiences.We gave up a fenced yard for the freedom to call remote corners of the continent home. Scout no longer sunbathes on the same worn deck boards—instead she flops on Newfoundland's drizzly coast, basks in Utah's red sands, frolics through Wisconsin's northwoods. Less indoor space means we breathe more fresh air. We're tougher than ever about wind and rain and temperature changes. We gave up being “clean” in the nitpicky sense I once held dear—and it opened us up to greater joy.Scout no longer has a whole house to wander. But she always has her home within reach.Of course, many of these things aren't direct trade offs so much as different versions of the same experience. We had weird neighbors in Florida; now sometimes strangers peer through our windows in a grocery store parking lot. We had maintenance workers barge into our old house; today we have to get our oil changed, sometimes our water pump breaks, maybe we're forced into a hotel for a night or two.But the things we've truly given up—the ones we can no longer access, can't recoup without shifting our lifestyle back the other direction—were easy to let go. We said farewell comfort, hello variety. Goodbye stability, greetings quality time.Years ago I learned about opportunity cost in my intro economics course, and it's never been more top of mind since hitting the road. Some things just aren't feasible when your house is less than 70 square feet and fitted to drive down a highway—but the question is if we miss those things. Does it feel like loss? Or making room for something better?Day in and day out my dog tells me it's the latter. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

Three days ago I got a rejection email. It's not important what it was for. When I first pitched, I remember telling Sean I didn't even care much about the specific opportunity anyway. (“Why not try?” was the extent of my excitement. “Why not try!” he agreed.)But the rejection came after I spent a lethargic day at a public park, feeling simultaneously lonely and observed, and either “I didn't care much” was a plain lie or reading another canned “our apologies, but…” was one disappointment too many. Regardless, I sputtered inside a rip current of what am I doing and am I any good and do I contribute enough (to my relationship, to my friends, to society) and I'm wasting time spiraling, aren't I.So, naturally, I went to the beach.On my way to pick Sean up from his office, I replayed the opening line of Noah Kahan's “False Confidence” a dozen times. (I imagined the van's stereo system was irritated with my constant rewinding. I imagined the whole world was irritated with my existence.) Don't take yourself so seriously, sang one of my favorite artists, over and over and over. I started to believe him just a little.As I waited for Sean to appear in the parking lot, I posted a video talking directly to the camera. This is still uncomfortable for me—I recorded two takes, actually—but I knew I couldn't be the only one feeling confused and low and in need of connection.Scout, forever sensitive to my voice's timbre, nuzzled her head against my chest.“It's going to rain soon,” Sean said when we arrived at the beach. “We can make it,” I replied. The storm's first front had just blown through. Clumps of seagrass littered the shore, adorned not only with man o' wars and broken shells but hordes of plastic: bottle caps and wrappers and jagged pieces of once-admired sand toys.We turned around, disgusted. From the van I grabbed two oversized garbage bags.The work was washed with shame and wonder. I held an old hairbrush with two fingers. I saw the tiniest ghost crab. We discovered not one, not two, but three discarded shoes. I cried both for the havoc my species is wreaking on this ocean I love so much and for the simple joy of walking with toes in the sand, clearing a miniscule stretch of beach on which the pipers might safely scavenge.The skies opened up as soon as we filled the second garbage bag. We were soaked through and laughing by the time we got back inside.“Is it cake?!” Mikey Day shouted with entirely too much enthusiasm. Sean and I sat in the van's cab chairs, finally dry; Scout lounged on the bed. I organized a few emails and shared ramen noodles with my begging dog and most of all laughed at my husband's enjoyment of the silly Netflix show. He loved it so much more than I thought he would.I love him so much more than I thought I could.The next day I watched sunrise over the water amidst a round of tug with Scout. I considered how lucky we were to have a dog-friendly beach. I considered how lucky I was to be there: by the ocean, in the sand, alive at all.We walked next to the waves three more times before dark. I read a collection of essays start to finish. We fell asleep early, three creatures on one bed, no room to spare, not even for doubt. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

I bookend the day with coffee shops to stave off loneliness. Solitude isn't the problem—anyway, I'm rarely by myself thanks to Scout—but I can't quite swallow the strangeness of not feeling alone even when I ought to be. Between me and the outside world is only a thin line. It's easy to erase: Someone can peer through the windows, knock on the door, blast subwoofers from the parking space one over, speak directly into my living room.I'm comfortable in our house on wheels. I've lived in this van for years now. There's peace in making Hermes my home with Sean but inverse stress in doing it without him. I am not incapable of managing the (lengthy) list of van logistics on my own—things run smoothly every time Scout and I are solo—but while the surface is flat, I feel roiling underneath. Anxiety. Overthinking. Conviction that I am not actually strong and centered enough for this, that soon—very, very soon—an Unsurvivable Thing will stalk onto the scene.Perhaps it comes down to the buffer Sean creates between me and the outside world. When someone stares too intently at me in a parking lot, he meets their gaze. When an overzealous man pumping gas asks for a tour of our van, he fields the request. When another owner refuses to leash their dog and blames me for stepping in front of Scout, he diffuses the tension.Does Sean's buffer mean I am not independent? I think about the Sex and the City episode I watched earlier in the rain when my brain was so frazzled I couldn't bear sitting down to write anything worth reading. Do I need to be rescued? (And is that the worst thing a modern woman can require?)Sean enables me to be more confident. He stands at my back, ready to throw his weight around if needed—only if needed—and lets me focus on all the other things that make life whole. I find this romantic, of course: Together we are the best versions of ourselves! I also resent, a little, the fact that I need (do I really need?) anyone to “enable” me at all. That I am not quite so badass and brightly colored in his absence.Is this me being a weakling? Or is this me being a woman—a woman who understands how the system works and knows it's easier to navigate with a man? Where does healthy caution end and hypocritical dependence start? I am not smart nor well read nor thoughtful enough to know.I do know that I get things done. Life goes on with or without my constant teammate in earshot, and when it blows up a little—literally when our batteries exploded last May, figuratively when we run out of water or the electricity falters or Scout has a hard time—I handle it just fine. I am competent. I am increasingly content with my own company. (Tonight I made the van cozier than ever: My miniature Christmas tree flickers next to my favorite candle, the kitchen speaker plays soft jazz, Scout donuts by my side in bed.)But I still bookended my day with coffee shops. I felt drawn to be around people sans yellow walls, to sit among them with the world's best patio dog, to balance alone-without-lonely in a way that seemed impossible inside my own home. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

The first time I took Scout to a brewery, she lay quietly on her mat. She did not bark. She did not growl. She did not stand up to stretch or shift her weight or investigate the environment.She also did not enjoy herself.My cattle dog was quiet and reserved and “polite” because she was scared—scared to the point of shutting down. She took a few treats and gave me eye contact when I asked, but her body was stiff, tension in every muscle, and it was only lack of experience that made me think the outing was remotely successful. (I was so proud at the time, I remember. Today the old video clips make me cringe.)In the years after that visit to Wisconsin Brewing Company, I worked hard to build not only Scout's behavior but her comfort. Our opportunities grew when we moved to Florida in 2020: We lived in a very dog-friendly housing complex, next to a very dog-friendly outdoor mall, and the amiable weather allowed us to keep training well into the winter.2021 and 2022 might have been our heydey. I already worked remotely—Scout and I regularly grabbed my laptop and a bag of treats (eventually we traded the overstuffed fanny pack of liver for a more modest handful plus a favorite toy) to go out on the town while Sean was in the office. We adventured plenty of places with him after work, too: small breweries, cheap pizza restaurants, a tiny park in the local arts district.By the time we moved into the van, Scout's patio skills were one of my proudest accomplishments. I assumed she'd only visit more coffee shops and bars and downtown centers with us once we hit the road. After all, the nature of our housing means she travels everywhere we do! But we slid the opposite way. Now that we have a temperature controlled home always within reach? It's easier to leave our heeler behind—where she'll happily nap on the bed or in a front cab chair—if we aren't sure she'll get something positive from an outing.You might think the reason Scout's patio behavior is “worse” is that she visits them less regularly, but that's not what I mean. I think she's more confident still.I'm not actually in my dog's head (however much I've wanted to be over the years) so I can't be sure of the reasons, but I'd guess her growth has looked something like this: We built a strong foundation of settling in public. Sometimes things went wrong, but she was reasonably comfortable on average. Then we started traveling full time—which incidentally exposed her to a larger variety of stimuli from the safety of her familiar space—and opted out of situations we weren't convinced would be productive. Net, the last two years have provided Scout with more positive experiences than ever. She usually likes where we take her… or she doesn't come. (Of course this isn't always the case—we've messed up plenty, environments have been surprising and startling and more than we bargained for—but we have a greater privilege than ever to scope situations out ahead of time and say “nope”.)So nowadays? Scout's default assumption, when she jumps out of the van, is that she's going to have a good time. I'd never call her optimistic, exactly (what a world that would be) but she might be edging closer.My dog's patio behavior is “worse” because she wants to sniff more before lying down on her mat. She no longer clings to the security of her dog bed—she'd like to learn about the world around her. It's “worse” because I rarely feel the need to give her an official place command, meaning she can explore within our table boundaries, and she's happy to take me up on the offer to choose her own spot. Then choose a different one. And again.Her patio behavior is “worse” because she's bolder about begging for food and saying “I'm too hot” and requesting affection. She's bolder about everything, really. She is less reactive, less nervous, and more willing to take up space.I'm writing this at our favorite coffee shop in Cocoa Beach. At the moment Scout's standing with her chin on my thigh, looking up, asking to do something fun (or for a piece of the bagel she hasn't realized I already finished). A few minutes ago she was flopped on her side under my chair in the shade. Before that she was curled on her travel mat. Before that she was sniffing the nearby planters.I used to take great pride that my dog would lie down in one place the whole time we spent on a patio. Today? I take great pride that she can be both socially responsible—polite and unobtrusive and cute and all those other good we're-in-public things—while also taking agency over her own experience.I love you forever and ever and ever, cattle dog. Watching you take on the world is capital-J Joy. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

Growing up in Wisconsin, I thought snowbirds were weak. I also thought Florida was one of the last places I'd live—when Sean started applying for jobs and asked how I felt about various parts of the country, I said something about being flexible but “not seeing myself in, like, Florida”.Today? We don't want to live anywhere full time (this is, after all, the greatest van life allure) but I've come around to spending winter near the beach. After a lovely month visiting friends and family, we're headed to the state where we first lived as a little family—the place that (politics aside) claims a huge slice of my heart and offers a deep well of nostalgia—to slow down again.Whenever we quickly make this drive from the midwest to the sunshine state, the road transports me to April 2020. My vision splits. On one side, life as it is now: Sean in the driver's seat, my feet on the dash, a sleepy heeler in her travel crate. On the other, life as it was then: Me gripping the wheel of a rented Tahoe, Scout wedged amid all my worldly belongings, pandemic anxiety hanging over the trip—entirely self contained—as we crawled across the country to move in with my boyfriend.The first time I made this drive, I wasn't certain I'd marry Sean. (I hoped.)The first time I made this drive, I cried so hard I nearly needed to pull over while listening to “Slow Down” by Nicole Nordeman. I thought about the way my parents wanted life to open up for me just because I was theirs, and I tore in two moving away.The first time I made this drive, our world knew nothing about COVID-19 except its terror.The first time I made this drive, I arrived in darkness to a tiny campground halfway between my old home and my new one. I begged Scout to pee in the rain. She pressed herself against my legs atop blankets in the cargo area for a fitful night of rest.The first time I made this drive, I forgot about time zones and accidentally woke my friend (Sean's friend, really) with a phone call from Georgia to Denver. Two years later—almost to the day—he officiated our wedding.The first time I made this drive, I talked to myself and to Scout over the steering wheel, spewing spoken word poetry attempts and nonsense, in awe that I was on such an adventure.The first time I made this drive, I played Home of the Strange by Young The Giant on repeat. Sean and I saw them live together less than a year into our love. Even as the miles waned, I couldn't feel close enough to him.The first time I made this drive, fire ants attacked Scout at a rest area just over the Florida border and I called my mom in a panic thinking my beloved dog was having a seizure. (In a few months she would have her first, making epilepsy forever part of our lives.)The first time I made this drive, I had only two tattoos. I was scared and optimistic and grateful. I was just starting to like—actually like—myself. Scout still barked and growled at almost every dog she saw. I wasn't strong enough to lift a full gallon of milk with my non-dominant hand. Van life was a pipe dream. Sean was not my husband and not my fiance, just the guy I was willing to bet on.It feels like every domino fell how it was supposed to. Get full access to Paws and Reflect at www.pawsandreflect.blog/subscribe

Today I meandered Instagram memory lane.The trip started unintentionally—I was simply “cleaning up” followers by looking at flagged and deactivated accounts. (Having recently learned this can help with engagement, and feeling stuck inside waiting to hear about freelance pitches on a bitingly cold afternoon, I figured why not.)Then I decided to look at who I'm following for the first time in ages. I filtered the list by “date followed: earliest” and found myself plunged into the old days—possibly the golden days?—of my time online.I'm still friends with several of the people behind these accounts. Some are close connections, fellow dog lovers I've now not only texted and video called but actually met in person. Others haven't posted in years. (I never even realized some were gone.) The bulk are on the app from time to time like me—we exchange occasional well wishes but mostly pass each other by.Seeing photos of dogs I used to check on daily and now hardly remember felt strange. Mostly it's lovely to reflect: The visuals bring me right back to my early years with Scout and I realize how far we've come, how much better our life is today, how much joy we've been granted. Partly it's also weird. Social media connections can feel so important and central and deep (sometimes they are) but can also fade without discernible cause or effect.I know that's normal. I still can't help but shift a little uncomfortably as I scroll through this time portal. Have I done something wrong by drifting from some of these original accounts? Have they? Do they ever think of me? Ought I to think of them? Is it okay that the way I used to depend on quasi-strangers for sustenance is unrecognizable to my current self?The answer to that last question is a resounding yes, of course. It's healthy. I love my current community—and I don't want to go back to the time where social media ate hours and hours and hours of life I could have given to Sean and Scout. But if I'm honest, maybe I miss those days a little, too. Maybe I didn't realize that until just now.“My relationship with Instagram” is a phrase I almost can't type with a straight face anymore. I've spent much of 2024 thinking about how I use social media. Is it worthwhile? (Sometimes.) Do the precious genuine connections make up for the inevitable stress? (Yes.) Am I comfortable with how much the style and content of my sharing has changed—and can I give myself the freedom to keep adjusting over time? (To be determined.)The girl who shared constant updates about her dog's debilitating fear reactivity feels a universe away. If you were there for her and are still here now, I can't tell you what that means. If you showed up later, I'm so glad you're willing to share time with my words today. And if you used to be in my circle but we've faded from each other's routines, I suppose you aren't reading this—but I'm sending you warmth, and memory, and gratitude all the same.Go play with your dog, if you're able.

Sean and I recorded this on December 14th, three days after my eye surgery. Now I'm finally able to look at screens here and there to share it! Mostly a (somewhat silly) story of trying to make my drops suck less... but as usual the experience did make me think of some real dog connections too.

'Tis the season for holiday family time! We talk about how it can be (counterintuitively) harder to advocate for our dogs around loved ones than strangers, that it's okay to focus on humans-only activities sometimes, what our visits have looked like lately, and my very best advice for anyone who gets overwhelmed at social gatherings

Sean and I sit down to talk about the ways I've struggled with ego, self-righteousness, and external opinions in life with Scout, including where I think the pressure came from initially. I feel more confident about our life together today than ever before — but wow, has it been a journey to get here. Some blog posts that address similar topics: What Level of Obedience is "Good Enough" For My Dog? Is My Dog My Mirror? Yes and No Worst Moments in My Dog Ownership Working Through My Biggest Dog Ownership Flaw Why Does Your Dog Need To Do… Well, Anything? Our "What's Right for YOU" Instagram guide compiles related posts, too.

Probably one of our least organized episodes to date (yes, that says something haha...) BUT Sean and I finally recorded another podcast! We reflect on our recent visit to New York City with Scout. Urban dogs & their people face so many challenges every day — it made me think about how adaptable our companions can be, how much work goes into taking good care of a canine in a city, how our environments affect our training goals & choices, and how different our life with Scout might have looked if we lived in a place like that full time. Related links: I summed some of these high level thoughts up in a blog post called "An Ode to Big City Dogs" This article shares overall reflections on navigating NYC with our van My friend Karoline (Dog Mom Mentality) did a podcast series not too long ago interviewing dog owners who live in a range of different environments — she & her guests provide some much more organized insights!

Haley and Sean sit down to talk about fulfillment, a topic inspired by a very kind listener in a podcast review. We discuss what biological fulfillment means to us, what it does for us & Scout, how we try to find activities that fulfill our cattle dog, and a bit on how we conceptualize our human fulfillment too. Related blog links: Fulfillment checklist article Reasons We Play "Just" to Play Our Play blog category Q&A From New Cattle Dog Owner on Fulfillment

Sean and Haley sit down to record a podcast for the first time in a while after several weeks of transition. We're officially living full time in our converted van, Hermes! We talk about our first impressions of van life (we absolutely love it so far); how the small space has changed (and not changed) certain parts of our lives; Scout's fulfillment, confidence, and overall routine being on the road; what it's like to leave her alone in the van when we go somewhere that isn't dog-friendly; and a final summary "pros and cons" list. More about our van life plans and experience so far: The Van Life category of our blog Van Dog Logistics Instagram guide

Haley and Sean run through a (not comprehensive) list of phrases I've heard often in the dog world — particularly in online training communities — that I think have merit (I see where they're coming from and agree in some contexts) but can also be reductionist (too sweeping of a generalization, misconstrued in unproductive ways, otherwise taken too far). So much depends on our personal connotations with different terms! We talk about: “Let dogs be dogs” “Let them sniff” “Dogs crave structure” “Be a good leader” “Don't coddle your dog" “Dogs aren't humans” “This is how it's done in the wild / this is what's natural" “Dogs do what has been reinforced" We also roast B.F. Skinner a little at the end. All in good fun, we promise.

Largely inspired by our recent experiences fostering, Sean and Haley sit down to talk about how every dog is an individual even within a single breed or home or other group. While domestic dogs do share many overarching traits, they also each bring their own quirks and preferences to the table. When we make space for that, it can be so fascinating and fun. When we get caught up in expecting all dogs to be a certain way, though (often subconsciously) we can set ourselves up for disappointment, resentment, or unnecessary conflict. Related links: What Colors Our Perceptions of Dog Training Methods? blog article — talks about how our own dogs' preferences can influence how we feel about things as a whole Why Does Your Dog Need to Do... Well, Anything? blog article — addressing how every dog, owner, and situation is different "It's All in How You Raise Them" Isn't True (and Truly Hurts) blog article Don't Compare Your Dog Reactivity Journey to Others blog article What's Right For YOU Instagram guide

Sean and Haley sit down to talk about fostering, which is clearly very top of mind lately. I am absolutely honored to have inspired some people with dogs like Scout (fearful, reactive, otherwise not social butterflies, etc) to open their homes to foster pets. I'd love to normalize the fact that creatures can coexist without directly interacting — it doesn't have to be "throw the dogs in the backyard and they immediately get along" all or nothing! That said, it's also really important to me that our personal experiences fostering are never used to say "hey this is possible, therefore you have to". Sometimes there can be a lot of pressure in the rescue world — and while I empathize with where those big emotions come from, everyone gets to make the decisions right for their individual pets and situations. We all decide what level of management and risk we're comfortable with. There is no one single way to be a "good" person or animal lover. In short: The ultimate goal of these rambles is to acknowledge that fostering a dog who is not interacting with resident animals (for whatever reason): Can be very hard. A multi-dog household, even if temporary, is never something I'd expect or force. But: It also is doable in the right circumstances. Not every animal in a house has to be instant best friends for it to be a successful experience! Nuance, as always.

Sean and Haley are a little tired and frazzled today after some busy weeks... but we sit down to talk about our current foster dog, a seven-month-old puppy with a broken leg, and the emotional rollercoaster we've lived since picking her up on Monday morning. We cover: a brief overview of Mystic's condition and what's made this situation challenging, that it's okay to have big emotions and struggle with things (yes, even if you're a self-proclaimed dog person with high standards!), that I've never been more thankful for the strength of my relationships with both Sean and Scout, how we've tried to process our feelings to stay connected as a team, and some logistics of this foster experience overall. Complete with a few other rambles, of course — and gushing about how much we really do love this little dog even if she's given us a run for our money. Related links: Our Foster Mystic story highlight on Instagram details our day-to-day so far Our Foster Puppies Instagram guide compiles posts about our initial time with Mystic and her littermate back in July The Rescue category of our blog has multiple articles about our fostering journeys

Sean and Haley talk about social / observational learning with our dogs, how incredibly COOL and worthwhile those concepts are to explore, and also how they can fit into advocating for our pets. (Sometimes "showing our dog a person / dog / situation is okay" and "advocating for our dog" might sound contradictory, especially if we hear extreme statements at far ends of either spectrum, but they aren't mutually exclusive!) Some specific books that inspired these thoughts: Dog is Love by Clive Wynne The Genius of Dogs by Brian Hare and Vanessa Woods Dog Sense by John Bradshaw (Highly recommend reading the actual studies discussed for more context; all three of the above titles have nicely organized reference sections specific to dogs) Are We Smart Enough to Know How Smart Animals Are by Frans de Waal Some related links: Running list of dog ownership books I recommend overall Running list of all the animal-related books I've read recently Sean's older blog about "just hanging out" with Scout (talks about social relationships, approaching them in a natural way) Blog on if my dog wants to please me or not Blog on thinking about my dog as a human friend Blog on advocating for my dog Blog on the line between advocating and "babying" my dog

Our van conversion will be finished in just three months! Sean and I sat down to answer some commonly asked questions about our choice to live in a van full-time along with a few build details. We go over: Why do we want to pursue van life in the first place? Why go through a conversion company for our build insteading of converting a van ourselves? Why buy our house a year and a half ago, and why sell it now? Why a Promaster? How is the van temperature controlled? How else have we set the van up with Scout in mind? Why include a shower? How does internet work? What are we most looking forward to? What are we most nervous about? Related links: "Van Life" category of our blog

Sean and Haley talk about balancing work, dog ownership, and other responsibilities with self care and messy emotions — specifically in the context of working from home. It's been easy for me to feel like a remote work schedule should automatically mean my days are more productive (I don't have a commute to drain my time, I'm with Scout for more of the day so can fit in short frequent play sessions, etc) especially now that I've gone out on my own with a more flexible schedule. On the one hand? I absolutely do want to make sure I use my time wisely and don't take these opportunities for granted! On the other? My own fulfillment and rest are as important as ever. I don't need to constantly self-sacrifice in order to "deserve" the good things in life, and there is no shame in taking time for myself. Some related links: I Quit an Awesome Job to Write About My Dog? (reflections on going out on my own) “Just” an Owner: Do I Have Any Right to Talk About Dogs? (relates to imposter syndrome, wondering if I even deserve to get to write about animals for a living)

Sean and Haley talk about embracing the mythical magic of our relationship with Scout (how incredible is it that we harmoniously share life with a creature of a whole different species?!) while also staying rooted in an accurate perception of what makes our cattle dog, well, a dog. Sometimes we see animal lovers delving into "folk nonsense" and expecting unfair things from their companions (or creating potentially dangerous situations by assuming our pets automatically understand societal norms, illnesses, or so on in ways they actually might not). On the other hand, we also see trainers try to dismiss the potential depth of connection between dog and owner in favor of a more robotic or negative view of our pets. I personally think the healthiest approach is one in between! Books mentioned: For the Love of a Dog by Patricia McConnell (the first I read this past week) Dog Sense by John Bradshaw (the second I read this past week) Are We Smart Enough to Know How Smart Animals Are by Frans de Waal (I just can't stop talking about this one!) Dog is Love by Clive Wynne (apparently I also can't stop talking about this one...) Some related blog articles: Does My Dog Want to Please Me? Yes and No Pros & Cons of Thinking About My Dog as a Human Friend What Advocating For My Dog Means & Why It Matters (the first part of this talks about honoring my dog as a canine) Imagining My Dog's “Umwelt” Helps Us Grow as a Team (all about trying to understand how Scout experiences the world)

Sean and Haley talk about dog sports, inspired by a thoughtful friend's question of if not participating in them has ever been at all uncomfortable as a voice in the online dog community (or if we've ever been made to feel weird by others in the space). We discuss why we don't do organized dog sports with Scout (just personal preference and lifestyle!), whether or not we are "against" them (absolutely not!), some things we've observed about different dog sports communities as outsiders (many awesome merits and a few potential cons), and a few overall reflections about being on social media (like how easy it is for content to be perceived in ways differently than the author intends and how much I care about nuance).

Sean and Haley sit down to chat through some dog ownership myths and generalizations that have personally affected life with Scout. I've felt a lot of internal conflict on different topics, especially in my first year with her — and across-the-board, contradictory statements from different trainers and friends and family members fueled much of that turmoil. We talk about: The false idea that "good dogs have to love other dogs and people" It's not "all in how you raise them" and the nuance of nature & nurture working together How rehoming is sometimes the best option for everyone involved Potentially hurtful statements like "your dog won't have behavioral problems if.... you're a good enough leader, they trust you, etc" that put all the onus on us humans (who are trying our best and already feel plenty overwhelmed & insecure) Similarly, advice like "if you're calm your dog will be calm" and variations of "just don't make a big deal out of things" The classic dogs on the furniture debate and a bit about our understanding of dominance That "you shouldn't comfort your dog when they're scared" If taking our dogs on a daily walk is the end all be all and generalizations about exercise Some related links and references: One of our first blogs, asking why your dog needs to do... well, anything Blog on how we set impactful goals with Scout It's all in how you raise them blog Ian Dunbar on the TWC podcast (and our running list of podcast notes) Puppies born ready to interpret human signals Blog on the balance between advocating for vs babying my dog Our personal dogs on the furniture rules Books I recommend to dog owners (we specifically mention Dog is Love by Clive Wynne and Frans de Waal's works) David Mech dominance articles (I pronounce his name wrong twice in this episode — my apologies! I was quite embarrassed when I realized. That's what I get for primary learning through written works. Oops. But the points about his works still stand.) Human control of resources / automatic dominance over dogs

A while ago I answered an "ask me anything" question on our Instagram story saying that no, Sean and I do not want human kids. I was completely floored at the number of messages — and diversity of responses — I received. So Sean and I sat down to dig into the topic further! We explore ways that dogs and kids do feel very similar to us, ways they're different, if having Scout fills the "role" of a kid for us at all, and some other nuance along the way. Some links: Strange Planet comic I reference (unrelated to the actual topic but I said I'd include it, so I did!) January Instagram post talking about how I'm no longer completely resisting the "dog mom" label July Instagram post about how not wanting my own kids doesn't mean I hate kids Books I recommend to fellow dog owners (we mention Dog is Love a few times in this episode) My favorite Frans de Waal books for dog owners (seriously, go read Are We Smart Enough to Know How Smart Animals Are!) Blog about why it's sometimes helpful to think about my dog as a human friend (tangentially related to the parallels of dogs and kids / us both being social mammals)

Sean and Haley try to distill a massive topic into an hour of conversation: how our training has evolved over time with Scout and whether or not we regret things we did in the past. This topic was initially inspired by someone on Instagram asking us to discuss guilt about previous training methods and snowballed into an attempt to (at least at a high level) reflect on our journey over time. There's a lot to unpack! So many confounding variables. Lots of emotions, too. But above all, we're happy about life with Scout today — and that means a lot to us. I previously wrote about some of the things we discuss in this episode in an article on our blog. If you're looking for an organized, in-writing version, that's a good place to start. As always, happy to answer any questions or just talk dogs!

Sean and Haley talk about our fostering experiences. I'm thrilled we've been able to welcome new dogs into our home even with Scout's fear / social awkwardness / general discomfort! We get into some of our personal logistics to make sure every creature in our home feels safe and advocated for (you can read more about our initial integration process with our first foster here) as well as the many emotions fostering has brought about and how we manage our own human wellbeing, too. * Note: “Reactive” is a really broad term. I chose to use it in this episode title since I think it's the word most fellow owners will resonate with, but it's important to remember it can mean different things to different people. You can read more of my thoughts on labels in this blog article and more about not comparing our reactivity journey to others in this one!

Sean and Haley sit down to talk about relationships. We briefly touch on our history as a couple (I adopted Scout when we'd been dating for 4-5 months and she was just "my" dog at first), discuss things that went well and things we struggled with as we came to own Scout together, and make multiple connections between dog-human and human-human relationships throughout. At the end I share my very favorite (and rather morbid) way to alleviate feelings of frustration with the creatures I love. You can read more of our relationship thoughts in this Instagram guide and articles on pawsandreflect.blog.

Drumroll for an official Paws and Reflect podcast! This first episode is a quick introduction to Haley and Sean, our cattle dog Scout, and how we came to be recording a podcast episode instead of just doing Instagram lives. Take a listen to our previous Haley-Sean dog chats on Instagram at @paws.andreflect or read some of our writing at pawsandreflect.blog.