The Howling Truth
What My Dog Taught Me About Writing and Presence
Last week, just as I was opening the Zoom room for my online course, my sweet and mercurial pup spotted her toy.
I had spent the day racing between responsibilities—fieldwork, classes, clients, and now this class—grabbing only a quick bite before logging in. But I had prepared, or so I thought. I barely had time to grab a bite before logging in. But I had prepared. I had structured the hour carefully, checked my lighting, and settled into my seat, ready to welcome my students into a space of presence and reflection.
Just as I was introducing the topic—how to find our authentic voice amidst the chaos—she had something else in mind.
From the corner of my eye, I saw her shift from her usual nestled curl into an alert, upright stance. I recognized that stance. It was the one she took when she faced down the neighborhood’s mammoth-sized dogs, the ones she knew she had no real hope of conquering but challenged anyway. I felt the tension in her small body, the way she coiled, her whole being attuned to some invisible, looming presence.
And then—the howling. Impossible to ignore
"How often do we brace for distant threats while ignoring what is screaming for our attention right now?"
I had 80 students waiting for me, their faces expectant, their screens tiled neatly in front of me. I took a breath. I had been so focused on preparing a lecture about uncovering the stories we’re holding that I had completely missed the one unfolding right in front of me.
We do this all the time.
How often do we fixate on distant, abstract threats while neglecting what is screaming for our attention right now?
I see it in my clients—the way they talk at length about problems they might have encountered decades ago while sitting in the grip of physical or emotional pain they refuse to acknowledge. I see it in myself—the way I pour everything into my work while skipping meals, pushing through exhaustion, telling myself I’ll rest later. I had sprinted through the day, barely pausing to breathe, and now my dog—this small, insistent creature—had become an alarm I could not snooze.
As I guided the group through a mindfulness practice, my deceptively rebellious pup dug into the floor as if she were being pursued by a bear. Then came a sound I had never heard before—deep, guttural, unearthly, and loud.
I inhaled, steadying myself. Calm confidence.
My earbuds seemed to be working well enough—my students weren’t reacting to the chaos around me. I was no stranger to teaching meditation amid sirens, honking horns, and relentless construction noise. But this? This was more than I thought I could handle.
I tried grounding myself, shifting my focus to how my body felt as I listened. I softened my voice into something melodic, reassuring. Calm confidence.
That’s what I’m learning in social work school—the art of managing, even tolerating, discomfort. Of continuing to listen, staying present to what’s happening within, even when everything around me is unraveling. This is sometimes called 'dual awareness,' and what one of my professor’s calls calm confidence.
I repeat ‘calm confidence’ like a mantra. I’ve taught through the sound of construction drilling outside my window, through tech failures, through clients’ deeply personal stories—and I’ve held steady.
I could handle this.
But this wasn’t a mild inconvenience. This was an escalation. A five-alarm siren.
It felt like a string tightening around my waist, pulling tighter with every second. My mind, already stretched thin, darted toward the world outside my office: the headlines, the weight of collective suffering, the endless ways injustice claws at the most vulnerable. The threats feel closer these days, pressing in on my work, my personhood, my loved ones. And here I was, sitting at my desk, trying to teach presence and calm while something wild and furious erupted in my immediate space.
Still, I counted my inhale and exhale.
A gentle coo did nothing. The only thing left to do was scoop her up, wedging her into the familiar space between my hip and chair—her usual safe haven.
At first, she settled. But within moments, she was alive with rage again. I squeezed her gently. Just a few more minutes. Just enough time to give a prompt, turn off my video and regroup.
The moment I had a break, I started frantically searching my office, what could it be, I didn’t see anything.
And then—I saw it. The narwhal. Her most beloved toy was tucked away in a drawer. Forgotten
Of course, she had been beside herself. Her need was simple, immediate, and unmet.
I retrieved the toy and moved back to my seat, struck by the bitter irony. I had spent the entire hour talking about how we neglect the stories we carry while neglecting myself in plain sight. My hunger. My exhaustion. My tightening chest. My failure to give myself even the most basic care.
How often do we mistake distant threats for the real emergency—our own unmet needs?
And how often do we try to force our way into stillness, into clarity, into story, rather than sitting with what is?
I had tried to restrain my dog into submission, to quiet her into calm. But the only way to stop her howling was to listen.
Writing is the same way.
We can’t plan for the moment. We can’t force our voices into submission or demand that our stories arrive in neat, obedient packages. We have to meet them where they are—wild, unruly, howling and all.
What if the very thing we’re trying to ignore, quiet, or suppress is the story itself?
As my pup curled against my hip, pacified at last, I let out a breath.
The chaos had never been out there.
It had been in me all along.
And maybe—just maybe—that was exactly where I needed to start.
"We have to meet our stories where they are—wild, unruly, howling and all."
Writing Prompt
What is howling for your attention right now? What truth, feeling, or story have you been trying to quiet, control, or set aside? Instead of pushing it away, let it in. Let the noise, the mess, the discomfort be part of the writing. Start with: ‘I have been trying to quiet…’ and see what emerges.
Want to take this reflection deeper? Join me this Friday at noon ET for a live writing session, where we’ll explore what’s howling for our attention—together. Click here to join us and be part of our nourishing writing community.