I'm going to tell you something I haven't told most of my friends.
There was a Tuesday last spring when I locked myself in the bathroom of my own apartment, sat on the edge of the tub, and cried for fifteen minutes while my dog Hudson barked at the front door.
Someone had knocked. A delivery driver, probably. Hudson had been on his fourth or fifth full meltdown of the day, the kind where his whole body shakes, his bark goes hoarse, and nothing I do or say gets through to him.
I was on a deadline. I had a Zoom call in twenty minutes. I had spent $600 on a trainer the month before. I had bought three
different "calming" supplements from Chewy. I had even - and I'm not proud of this - yelled at my dog, the dog I rescued, the dog I love more than almost anything, until my voice cracked.
And he kept barking.
So I went into the bathroom. I closed the door. And I cried.