I was never meant to be on that train. After a sleepless night outside my ex’s apartment, clinging to the wreckage of something already broken, I booked the first ticket out. I didn’t even check the destination—I just needed to breathe.
That’s when I saw the dog.
A golden retriever, dignified and calm, sat beside his person like he belonged more than I did. When he looked at me, something softened. His eyes said, I see you. Moments later, without prompting, he walked over, rested his head on my leg, and stayed.
“That’s not something he usually does,” his person said.
I spoke to the dog—half sentences, quiet truths. He listened. And when they invited me to a cabin by Lake Crescent, I surprised myself and said yes.
Sam, the man, had lost his wife two years ago. Buddy, the golden retriever, had been his steady companion ever since. “He knows when someone needs company,” Sam said. “And he picked you.”
The cabin was simple, warm, and peaceful. We shared stories beside the fire. I told him about the relationship that broke me. About staying too long. About losing my voice. He didn’t offer solutions—just presence. And when he said, “Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is walk away,” I believed him.
On my last morning, Sam handed me a folded quote:
Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’
Back home, something shifted. I started writing again. I smiled more. Then I saw a post from a local shelter: Sam and Buddy, volunteering to comfort others.
I went. Buddy recognized me instantly, tail wagging with joy. I started volunteering too—and somewhere between walking rescue dogs and helping strangers, I found myself again.
Months later, Sam invited me on another retreat—this time to the mountains. I said yes.
Buddy wasn’t just a dog. He was a golden guide reminding me that healing starts with presence, kindness, and a little faith. And sometimes, courage is simply saying: I’ll try again tomorrow.
