Maverick: In My Chaos, He Brings Calm. And When He's Low, I Enter His World.

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Working from home has its perks—flexibility, comfort, and the freedom to be entirely yourself (when you're alone). But it also comes with its challenges, and for me, the emotional toll of stress, deadlines, and difficult interactions can build up fast.

I’ve learned to stay professional in my responses, even when people get under my skin. On the outside, I might be calm and composed—but once I hit send, it’s not uncommon for me to let out a burst of frustration. Loud words. Swearing. A yell just to release it all.

And in those moments—every time—my dog comes to me. Quietly. Instinctively.

It’s not fear that brings him. In fact, what makes this so meaningful is that, according to his background, loud voices once did scare him. I first fostered him, eventually adopted him, and early on I could see the signs of a traumatic past. He was jumpy. Submissive. Loud noises would send him running to a corner. His records even suggested he might have been abused.

But now? That same dog hears me yell—and instead of hiding, he walks toward me. He sits beside me or stares up with those deep, steady eyes as if to say, “Are you okay?”

It hits me every time. That kind of trust isn’t just healing—it's transformational. He no longer fears those loud moments. Instead, he offers calm in response to my chaos. He grounds me. And what’s even more incredible is that, in those intense emotional bursts, the moment I see him... it's like everything melts away.

And here’s the thing: because he’s always acted so human toward me in my hardest times, I don’t mind becoming a little bit of a dog for him. When he’s withdrawn, sitting quietly in a corner, I meet him where he is. I’ll grab one of his toys, gently bite it, nudge him, or even playfully mouth at him the way he does with me—just to say, “Hey, I’m here. Let’s feel better together.” The anger, the stress, the noise in my head—it lifts. Just his presence comforts me in a way no words ever could.

And here’s the part I forget sometimes: I always say I’m alone at home. But I’m not. I may be the only person in the house, but I’m not truly alone. There's another life here. One that sees me, senses me, and supports me in his quiet, unwavering way.

He may not be able to speak, but his presence says more than any conversation ever could. He doesn't just exist in my space—he shares it. And more importantly, he holds it with me, especially when I'm struggling to hold it myself.

Sometimes, all it takes to feel okay again is him.