The Way Lewis Wants to Be Loved

I came home from practice the other night—one of those long, late sessions that leaves your body tired and your mind still spinning. The kind where the echo of whistles and sneakers doesn’t stop just because the clock does. I walked into our room, dropped onto the edge of the bed to untie my shoes, and before I could even get to the second lace, he was there.

Lewis.

He jumped up beside me, eyes already searching mine, tail going like a little motor, that soft whine caught in his throat. His version of “I missed you.”

Sometimes he’ll bring a toy. Sometimes he’ll just circle me like I’m the sun and he’s been waiting for me to rise again. But every single time, he’s asking the same thing:

Do you see me?

And he won’t stop until the answer is yes.

With Lewis, there’s no playing cool. No pretending. He wears his heart on four furry legs. If he needs love, he asks for it. If he wants connection, he reaches for it. He doesn't care if I’m tired or distracted—he knows what he needs, and he makes sure I know it too.

And here’s the thing: he’s not wrong for that.

Lewis wants a kiss. A belly rub. A hand on his head that says, “I’m here. I missed you too.”

And once he’s had that moment—once he’s been properly loved—he settles. Curled up. Content. Safe.

That night, after he finally stopped wiggling and sighed that deep, full-body sigh only dogs can do, I found myself thinking: What would it be like if more of us knew how we wanted to be loved?

And more importantly, what if we weren’t afraid to ask?

Too often, we’re taught to keep quiet about our needs.

Don’t rock the boat. Don’t ask for too much. Don’t be difficult. Don’t be needy.

So we shrink.

We bite our tongue when something hurts.

We accept “good enough” when our soul is asking for more.

We contort ourselves into silence just to keep the peace.

But Lewis… Lewis has no tolerance for that kind of smallness. He doesn't beg for love—he expects it. Because he knows he’s worthy. And he trusts that love will meet him halfway.

What if we did the same?

What if we gave ourselves permission to say:

“I need tenderness.”

“I want to be greeted when I walk in the door.”

“I need someone who remembers how I take my coffee.”

“I can’t keep giving when it feels like no one notices.”

What if naming your needs wasn't weakness—but wisdom?

That moment with Lewis reminded me that love isn’t just something we give—

it’s something we receive, and something we teach others how to offer us.

And while it’s not always easy, I believe this deep down:

You’re allowed to say what feels good.

You’re allowed to reject what doesn’t.

You’re allowed to hold out for the kind of love that fills you instead of drains you.

Because love—real love—isn’t just about showing up.

It’s about showing up in a way that actually reaches the other person’s heart.

That’s what Lewis reminds me.

Every jump. Every soft whine. Every expectant stare.

Love me like this, he says.

And don’t stop until I feel it.

So, if you’ve been waiting for a sign that it’s okay to ask for more—

This is it.

You don’t have to settle.

You don’t have to stay silent.

You don’t have to tolerate anything that makes you feel unseen, unsafe, or unloved.

You can be kind and still have boundaries.

You can be grateful and still have needs.

You can be soft and still expect to be treated with care.

And if you forget any of that—

just come sit with Lewis for a while.

He’ll show you how it’s done.

(Tomorrow, I’ll tell you about Harvey’s take on all this. Let’s just say… his love language is a little more “Wait your turn, bro.”)