Belonging Is the Strongest Thing I Know

Some mornings, I wake before the sun has decided to pour through the windows — just me, feet warm in my old socks, the quiet stretching out like a held breath. The French press waits on the counter — a small ritual that steadies me before the world asks too much. I stand there for a while, feeling the boards under my feet — not cold, not warm, just solid in a way I spent years trying to be.

I used to think that was the goal: to be unshakeable. To stand so firm that nothing and no one could knock me loose. Solid meant safe. Solid meant strong. But the truth is, my being guarded — the walls I built to keep the worst out — ended up stunting my growth and maturity just as much as any harsh word or raised hand ever did.

If you’ve grown up braced for hurt — or loved someone who has — you know how that guardedness takes root deep inside you. It teaches you to hold vigil when the world is sleeping. To stand watch on your own walls long after the threat is gone. To mistake that constant guard for strength and the distance it creates for safety.

It’s strange, then, that it’s these dogs who help untangle that old story for me, morning after morning. They don’t do it alone — they can’t. But they model what I spent years longing for without knowing how to ask: closeness that doesn’t flinch, trust that doesn’t need words, the steady promise that you don’t have to guard every door alone.

Three warm bodies stretch out around me, claiming the ground like it’s holy. Lewis leans his weight against my foot, steady as a stone. Harvey lies close, half-awake, half-guarding, as if to say, I’ve got this shift. Bear snores loud enough to remind me that some things — the soft, good things — don’t need fixing, only keeping.

They don’t care what mistakes I made yesterday or what regrets I drag into today. They don’t keep score. They stay close because that’s how trust grows — inch by inch, breath by breath, staying near when someone’s too tired to believe they’re safe. That’s what a pack does — keeps the circle close, keeps watch when you need to rest.

And somewhere between their quiet watch and my old reflex to stand guard alone, I’ve learned that letting people in is slow work. Like brewing good coffee — which brings me back to that French press waiting on the counter while the light changes. There’s something about making coffee this way — no buttons, no filter to catch what’s meant to come through. Just fresh grounds, hot water, and time. You let it steep. You wait. You trust the good stuff will be there when you’re ready to pour. Maybe that’s why I love it — it reminds me that the best things — trust, healing, belonging — can’t be forced. They ask you to stay.

Melanie does that for me too. It’s not the dogs alone — it’s her, choosing to stand close when my old walls whisper, Don’t let anyone see too much. She holds the quiet corners of my life the way they hold the floor: steady, patient, unshaken. I couldn’t ask for better — better support, better witness, better proof that the circle can hold, even when the old wounds want to lay bricks overnight.

This is what I keep learning, morning by morning: strength isn’t the guard on the wall — it’s the trust that lets you climb down. It’s not the watching — it’s the soft place to sit when your knees ache. It’s not the fortress — it’s the circle that says, I’ve got you, when you’re too tired to hold watch by yourself.

Some will read this and see themselves — or someone they love, holding vigil on walls they built to keep the worst out, not realizing they’re keeping the best out, too. Maybe you’re doing that work now. Maybe you’ve got your own quiet rituals — a dog at your feet, a partner who stays, a mug of coffee that reminds you you don’t have to stand guard alone.

I think about that sense of belonging, too — how it’s probably part of why I love coaching so much. There’s something about a group that shows up for each other, trusts the circle, learns to hold each other up when the game gets heavy. Maybe it’s my way of giving back what I spent years learning how to keep.

If you’ve been carrying it all too long, I hope you find your own floor — the one you refuse to stand watch on by yourself. May you find the ones who’ll rest their weight at your feet. May you learn to let them. May you remember: you don’t have to stand unbreakable to be strong. Belonging is the strongest thing I know.

Even on the warmest mornings. Especially then.