The Face in The Mirror: My Healing Journey with Dogs

“Like looking into a living, breathing mirror, these dogs have become teachers in my journey toward mental health and self-understanding.”  image AdobeStock AI

In the crisp air of November, as nature prepares for its annual slumber, we're called to pause and reflect on what makes us grateful. This year, my thoughts turn to an unexpected source: the troubled souls of dogs grappling with their own inner storms.

With their unfiltered expressions of anxiety and fear, these distressed dogs are textbooks of the human condition. Their struggles, so raw and unmasked, have taught me to recognize and honor the vulnerability in myself and others. Like looking into a living, breathing mirror, these dogs have become teachers in my journey toward mental health and self-understanding.

It’s a journey that began with my own struggles.

For as long as I can remember, anxiety and depression have been my constant companions, unwelcome shadows trailing my every step. These invisible burdens, compounded by the challenges of navigating the world as an autistic individual, shaped my reality, often leaving me feeling isolated and misunderstood. It wasn't until I began working with dogs – particularly those labeled as anxious or reactive – that I found an unexpected path to self-discovery and healing.

As I delved deeper into dog behavior and training, I realized how well my own struggles had prepared me for this work. The hypervigilance that came with my anxiety translated into keen observation skills. My experiences with depression allowed me to sit patiently with a dog's emotional pain without rushing to "fix" it. Gradually, as I learned to extend compassion to these animals in need, I found myself becoming kinder to the struggling human I saw in the mirror.

My autism, while often challenging, has become an unexpected asset in my work with dogs. It allows me to perceive the world in ways that others might miss, a gift that has proven invaluable in understanding canine behavior. I recall working with a dog who refused to turn left when exiting their street, baffling several trainers before me. As the dog and I approached the corner, I immediately noticed a bright reflection from a metal street sign, shining directly into my eyes. At that moment, I understood: this was the source of the dog's distress, a sensory overload that others had overlooked.

This heightened sensory awareness, a hallmark of my autism, often helps me identify triggers that might elude others. It's a stark reminder that sometimes what we perceive as stubbornness or misbehavior in dogs – or indeed, in humans – is simply a response to an overwhelming world. My neurodivergent perspective has taught me to look beyond the obvious, to seek understanding in the subtle details of the environment and behavior. It's a lesson in empathy that extends far beyond dog training, reminding me daily of the diverse ways we all experience the world.

My experiences with dog behavior work have taught me it's okay not to be okay. When I give a stressed dog a break, allowing it to decompress without judgment, I'm learning to extend that same grace to myself.

I've also come to understand that healing isn't linear for dogs or for humans. Some days, a formerly reactive dog might walk calmly past a trigger; other days, the same dog might bark and lunge. Similarly, my own journey with anxiety and depression has its ups and downs. But just as I wouldn't shame a dog for having a bad day, I also would not shame myself.

This mirroring has become a powerful tool for self-compassion, reminding me that progress isn't perfect, and that sometimes the kindest thing we can do – for our dogs and for ourselves – is to acknowledge our challenges and give ourselves permission to simply be.

In the hush of a training session, I observe a troubled dog, once a fortress of fear, slowly lowering its defenses. Its eyes, previously skittish and distrustful, now meet mine with a plea for understanding. This moment of openness mirrors our human struggle with vulnerability. Like this dog, we often conceal our trembling hearts behind the facades of forced smiles and rehearsed reassurances that we’re fine.

But what if we allowed ourselves to express pain openly, to seek comfort when afraid? As I witness the strength in a dog's willingness to trust again, I'm reminded that true courage isn't the absence of fear but the choice to open our hearts despite it. By embracing our vulnerability and revealing our authentic selves - scars, fears, and all - we create space for deeper connections with ourselves and others. It's in these unguarded moments that the seeds of genuine healing and understanding take root.

Throughout my work with dog behavior, I've encountered countless animals labeled as aggressive, anxious, or problematic. Yet as I work with these dogs, I see not monsters but beings attempting to cope with their environment or past experiences. This realization has shifted my perspective on human mental health and neurodiversity. Just as a dog's growl or cowering isn't a character flaw but a cry for help, our own mental health challenges are not weaknesses to be hidden away.

When I help an anxious animal find calm, I'm reminded that change and healing are possible for us all. These dogs teach us to look beyond labels. They show us that with understanding and proper support, transformation is possible. By openly discussing our mental health struggles and neurodivergent experiences, just as we might describe a dog's behavior, we chip away at the walls of stigma. In doing so, we create a world where seeking help and embracing our unique ways of being are seen not as signs of weakness but as acts of courage and self care.

As dog training has evolved, we've learned to rely on methods backed by science, not folklore. Gone are the days of dominance theory and punitive corrections. Instead, we use positive reinforcement, desensitization, and counter-conditioning – techniques proven to create lasting change.

It saddens me when I encounter trainers who still believe a dog needs a painful correction or an electric shock instead of addressing the emotion behind the behavior. This perspective not only harms the dog but reflects a harsh view of human nature as well.

These days I'm struck by how closely dog behavior modification mirrors evidence-based therapies for human mental health and support strategies for neurodivergent individuals. The careful exposure work I do with a dog terrified of traffic echoes the gradual steps of exposure therapy for phobias. Even the concept of "trigger stacking" in dogs – where multiple stressors compound to cause a reaction – reflects our understanding of how chronic stress impacts human mental health, particularly for those of us with heightened sensitivities.

These parallels have deepened my appreciation for science-based approaches in both canine and human well-being. They've taught me that whether we're on two legs or four, our brains respond to patient, consistent, and evidence-based interventions. Embracing these methods in my own life has been transformative, offering new tools to manage my anxiety and depression and to embrace my autistic traits.

The evolution of dog training methods has shown that pain and fear have no place in behavior modification. Instead, we create environments where dogs feel safe to learn and grow, free from the burden of judgment. How often do we humans use judgment, shame, or fear in our attempts to "fix" ourselves or others? How many times have I berated myself for an anxious moment, a depressive episode, or an autistic trait that others found challenging?

Working with dogs has taught me that healing flourishes in an atmosphere of acceptance. Just as I wouldn't judge a dog for its fears, I'm learning not to judge myself or others. By creating safe spaces – both for our dogs and ourselves – where vulnerability is met with compassion rather than criticism, we open the door to true healing. We can finally breathe, acknowledge our pain without fear, and take those crucial first steps toward growth and recovery.

As the sun sets on another day of training, I find myself sitting quietly with my once fearful dog who now rests peacefully by my side. In the gentle rise and fall of his chest, I see a mirror of my own journey – from a place of anxiety and self-doubt to one of growing self-acceptance and hope.

These dogs, with their unspoken wisdom and boundless capacity for love despite past hurts, have become my greatest teachers. They've shown me that healing is possible, that vulnerability is strength, and that every small step forward is a victory worth celebrating. As I run my hand over soft fur, feeling the steady thrum of a trusting heartbeat, I'm overwhelmed with gratitude. For in helping these dogs find their way back to joy, I've found my own path to inner peace.

We are not so different, these dogs and I – all of us seeking understanding, kindness, and a safe place to lay our burdens down. And in this shared journey of healing, I've discovered a profound truth: that compassion, extended to others and to ourselves, has the power to mend even the deepest wounds.

As we move forward into the gratitude-filled days of November, may we all learn to see ourselves through the loving eyes of a dog: worthy of patience, deserving of second chances, and always, always worthy of love, just as we are.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​