The Weight Between Steps
22:59 Oct 08 2025
Times Read: 14
Lately, the days have begun to blur together again. There’s a rhythm to them - steady, predictable, almost comforting - but beneath that surface, there’s an ache that I can’t quite shake. Every morning feels the same: the quiet hum of the computer screens, the faint aroma of coffee filling the room, the creak of the chair as I settle into it. And then there’s her - always there - her soft paws moving across the floor, nails tapping against the wood like a metronome keeping time.
She’s growing fast. Her body’s no longer that of the fragile puppy I once feared I might lose. She’s strong now, powerful even, her frame filling out with a confidence that commands the space around her. The stubborn streak hasn’t faded; if anything, it’s become a defining part of who she is. Training sessions often feel like debates rather than lessons. I’ll issue a command, and she’ll look up at me with that deliberate pause - the kind that says, I hear you, but I’ll decide if this is worth my effort.
It’s frustrating at times, but there’s something honest in her defiance. She doesn’t disobey out of confusion or rebellion; she’s simply asserting herself. And strangely enough, I respect that. I suppose I see a bit of myself in her - the quiet resistance, the refusal to yield just because life insists you should.
Still, the weight of it all catches up with me sometimes. The slow rise of that familiar darkness, creeping in without warning, subtle at first like a shadow stretching across the edge of my thoughts. For every few steps forward, it feels as though something comes along to push me back three more. Sometimes it’s nothing more than silence - the quiet that seeps into the cracks between moments, whispering reminders of old disappointments, of the things I’ve lost or let slip away.
It’s strange how depression works. It doesn’t roar; it seeps. It settles in like dust, so fine and quiet that you don’t realize it’s covered everything until you try to breathe. The days that once felt full of progress suddenly feel heavy again, each motion slower, each thought duller. Even the things that should help - writing, reading, the structure of my routines - begin to lose their color.
But then, there’s her.
When I start to sink into that slow, numbing drift, she notices. She always does. There’s a shift in her demeanor - her ears perk, her gaze sharpens, and before long, she’s beside me, pressing her head against my leg or dropping a toy at my feet as if to say, You’re drifting too far. Come back.
Sometimes I ignore her at first. Sometimes I just sit there, staring at the screens, the cursor blinking in rhythm with the thoughts I can’t quite shape into words. But she’s persistent. She’ll nudge me again, maybe grumble softly in that expressive way of hers, and eventually, I cave. I reach down, scratch behind her ears, and something in the heaviness eases. Just a little.
We go back to basics together then - not just in her training, but in everything. The simple acts: eat, breathe, walk, speak. I’ll call her to heel, and she’ll obey - sometimes reluctantly, sometimes with that proud spark in her eye - but always with a sense of purpose. And in those small victories, I find my own.
I’ve come to realize that progress isn’t always about moving forward quickly. Sometimes it’s about standing still and not letting the darkness swallow you whole. Some days, it’s enough to just not lose ground.
She reminds me of that daily. In her stubbornness, her strength, and her loyalty. She’s living proof that survival isn’t about perfection - it’s about persistence and maybe that’s enough for both of us right now.
Tomorrow will come. Another routine. Another round of the same commands and quiet defiance. And maybe - just maybe - another step forward.
Even if I stumble three steps back, at least I’m still moving.
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