Every Time My Dog Looks at Me

Every time my dog looks at me, I want to run screaming from the house.

Not because she's doing anything particularly annoying, but because every little thing makes my skin crawl right now.

Every noise.

Every emotion.

Every "Do you need a hug?"

That should be one of the nicest questions someone can ask me, and yet here I am, sitting across the table from my husband with tears streaming down my face, wondering if running to the other side of the planet would finally feel far enough away.

He hasn't done anything wrong.

Not in the normal sense of the word.

He's just... here.

It's the middle of the day on a Thursday, and he's supposed to be at work. I'm supposed to have three quiet hours between teaching yoga and coaching clients—three hours to enjoy the peaceful house, listen to the dog whine because she wants a walk, and get lost in meaningful work.

Instead, he's sitting across the table from me with half of his face numb from the dentist, doing absolutely nothing wrong.

Just existing.

And somehow, that feels unbearable.

Because solitude is how I regulate myself.

The hardest part is that I don't always realize I'm dysregulated until I'm already there. I don't notice it while I'm saying yes to one more conversation, one more commitment, one more room full of people.

I notice it when I'm crying because someone corrected my coaching cue from a minute of rest to thirty seconds.

Logically, I know that's not something to unravel over.

But our nervous systems don't always ask logic for permission.

I've started wondering if one of the reasons I crave solitude so deeply is that when I'm around other people, some part of my brain is constantly scanning.

Are they okay?

Do they need something?

Should I respond?

How are they feeling?

Even when no one is asking anything of me, my mind seems to stay quietly attuned to everyone else in the room.

Solitude is the only place where that quiets down.

So today, I had to say something that felt incredibly uncomfortable.

"I love you, but I don't want to hang out today. I have work that I'm supposed to be doing, and I really need this time by myself."

As the words came out, tears filled my eyes.

Not because I didn't mean them.

Because I hated knowing they might hurt someone I love.

He looked heartbroken, then gently asked, "Is it okay if I'm in the bedroom?"

What I wanted wasn't distance from him.

What I wanted was relief from the constant awareness that another person was sharing my space.

I wanted to stop thinking about anyone else's experience for a little while and simply exist inside my own.

I don't fully understand why that happens. Maybe it's something I'll continue exploring with my therapist.

What I do know is this:

When I reach that point, I don't need a vacation.

I need a pair of noise-canceling headphones, my favorite sweatpants, my emotional support water bottle, and uninterrupted time to work on the ideas that have been quietly tapping me on the shoulder all week.

Ironically, my tarot cards keep reminding me to slow down and enjoy the life I'm building instead of always focusing on the business I'm creating.

And every time I think,

"I hear you...

...but I really love my work."

Not because I'm trying to escape my life.

Because this work is part of the life I'm building.

It matters to me.

It challenges me.

It lights me up.

I believe it's going to change lives—not just my family's, but hopefully many others as well.

So today I chose the uncomfortable thing.

I said the sentence that made my stomach tighten.

I let myself feel guilty without assuming guilt meant I had done something wrong.

Because I've realized something important.

My nervous system takes up space too.

If I listen when it's whispering, I don't have to wait until it's screaming.

Maybe that's what I'm learning.

Not that I need less love.

Not that I need less work.

Not even that I need more solitude.

Maybe I'm simply learning to recognize when my capacity has been reached—and to honor it before I become someone I don't want to be.

Tomorrow I'll probably be a better wife.

A better friend.

A better coach.

Not because I ignored what I needed today.

Because, for once, I didn't.