I Made a Decision... Reality Didn't Agree

Life has a funny way of testing what you think you've learned.

After I wrote my last gut-wrenching post about needing to rehome my dog, I started taking steps to do exactly that as safely and responsibly as possible.

I reached out to more than 20 rescues, shelters, fosters, people I knew, and friends.

And I received just as many rejections. And then some more, because people wanted to help so they referred me to other organizations. Which on one hand was so wonderful, and on the other… devastating to add more rejections to the pile.

My heart broke all over again.

I wanted all of this to be over so I could start healing. Instead, I felt like I was grieving a loss I hadn't actually experienced yet. Because I was sitting there staring at her sitting with me, while trying to send her away.

Every rejection sent me deeper into a spiral.

I was fighting to make the choice I had so carefully made for my family actually happen.

And it was taking up so much real estate in my mind that I couldn't think about much else.

I thought I was doing everything right

I had been so intentional about making the original decision.

I didn't make it out of panic.

I didn't make it because my husband told me what to do.

I didn't make it because I wanted to escape the discomfort of the situation.

I sat with it.

I let myself feel the grief, the fear, the anger, the guilt, the sadness.

I waited until I could hear my own voice underneath all of it.

And eventually, I decided it was time to rehome her. At the time I believed her behavior issues were because we were inconsistent, and someone else would be a better fit for her.

So I did what I thought came next.

I started looking for a safe place for her to go. And reality immediately disagreed with me. There weren't endless homes waiting to take a dog with her history.

There wasn't a simple next step.

There wasn't a neat little path from which I have made my decision to everything is going to be okay. There were rejection emails. Phone calls that went nowhere. People who couldn't help.

Judgements on the fact that I think my dog is worthy of a home, instead of a one way trip to the vet…And a growing realization that the decision I had made didn't fit neatly into the reality in front of me.

I had thought making the decision would be the hard part.

It wasn't.

I didn't realize I was frozen

The first day after the rejections started pouring in, I read an entire book.

The second day, I watched an entire season of a show.

And all the while, I was neglecting my house and telling my kids “not right now” approximately one million and one times.

At first, I thought I was practicing self-care. And technically, I was allowed to do those things.

I needed rest.

I had been through a lot.

But something else was happening.

I was stuck.

My mind was replaying every possible option over and over again.

What if we kept her?

What if we didn't?

What if nobody would take her?

What if the next place wasn't actually better?

What if I was making the wrong decision?

What if I was putting my family at risk?

What if I was failing her?

What if I was failing my kids?

What if there was another option I hadn't thought of yet?

I didn't have any mental space left.

So I escaped into things that didn't require me to make another decision.

I didn't realize I was frozen at first.

I just thought I was taking a break.

It wasn't until something finally shifted that I could see what had been happening underneath the surface.

And then someone gave me a different option

After more than 20 rejections, one of the rescues offered me something I hadn't expected.

Not a place for my dog.

A referral.

They knew of a nonprofit behaviorist who specialized in my dog’s breed and could help us understand what was happening and what options we actually had.

It wasn't an answer. But it was movement. And suddenly I could think again. I woke up. Like a switch had been flipped and life entered my body again.

I realized my mind had been spinning in the background trying to figure out whether I should keep my decision, pivot, or abandon the idea altogether.

No wonder I couldn't focus on anything else.

I had been carrying an unresolved decision with no clear path forward.

And underneath that was another kind of grief.

The grief of realizing that what I thought was the right decision didn't necessarily fit the reality in front of me.

The weight I had felt when I first decided to rehome her hadn't disappeared.

It had quadrupled.

I was being pulled in ten different directions. Between what I thought I needed to do. What my family wanted me to do. What was safest for everyone. What was best for her. And what reality would actually allow me to do.

Maybe self-trust isn't about being right

This is the part I am still sitting with.

Because if self-trust means listen to yourself and you'll always know the right answer, then this story doesn't make much sense.

I trusted myself.

I made the decision.

And then reality didn't cooperate.

But I don't think that means I was wrong to trust myself.

I think I trusted myself with what I knew to be true then. And when I learned something knew, I trusted myself to sit and listen again.

Self-trust doesn't mean you never change your mind.

It doesn't mean you always know what to do.

It doesn't mean you make the perfect decision the first time.

It means every version of you gets the chance to be heard and understood.

The woman who decided to rehome her deserved to be heard.

The woman who froze afterward deserved to be heard too.

The woman who found hope in a new possibility deserved to be heard.

And if I ultimately made a different choice because of what I learned, that wouldn't mean the earlier version of me was wrong.

She was working with what she knew.

Every version gets a seat

I think this is what I've been learning about myself lately.

I used to think growth meant becoming the version of myself who knew better.

The calmer version.

The more confident version.

The version who didn't freeze.

The version who didn't get overwhelmed.

But I'm starting to think that's not what this is.

Maybe the goal isn't to replace one version of yourself with another.

Maybe it's to know how to meet the one who's here.

Even when she's confused or angry.

When she's frozen on the couch watching an entire season of a new show while feeding her kids frozen pizza the second time that week.

Even when she changes her mind or doesn’t have an answer yet.

She still gets to be heard.

Sometimes that takes five minutes.

Sometimes it takes four hours.

Sometimes it takes a book and an entire season of TV before you realize what was actually happening.

She still gets a seat.

None of them have to be erased for the next one to exist.

None of that makes her broken.

It just means she's here.

And I'm learning that I don't have to rush her into becoming someone else before I'm willing to listen.

Just how to stay long enough to hear the woman who's here.

Still here,

Bethany RN, NC-BC

Protection, understanding, unruly confidence.

-Nettles