What Dogs Have Taught Me About Letting Go
There are days where I feel like everything's slipping—where the weight in my chest lingers, and focus feels impossible. I've been through one of those stretches lately. But every time I step outside with Arya, everything slows down. She doesn’t ask me to be perfect. She doesn’t care about the noise in my head. She just looks at me like I’m still the one she trusts to lead her. And in that moment, I remember: training a dog isn’t just about shaping their behavior—it’s about reshaping ourselves. Letting go. Showing up. Being present. Even when we’re hurting. Especially then.
Dogs don’t know what’s going on in our lives.
Sure, we talk to them—and they can sense our tone, our presence, our energy—but they don’t actually understand what we’re feeling. They’re detached from our stories. All they know is the moment. Their own motives. Their own needs.
They act like nothing’s wrong. They move through the day as if everything is normal.
And I guess that’s the difference right now—I’m the one pretending.
Pretending things are normal. Still going through the motions. But with less drive, less presence, less energy.
Eventually, you realize that hanging on to something—or someone—that isn’t helping you grow… it’s not strength. It’s sabotage. And that’s when it hits: maybe in this moment, I need to be more like the dog—let go, move forward, be present.
Emotions aren’t weakness. They’re the opposite. They’re our greatest strength when we use them to read the world around us, to feel, to connect. But they’ll wreck your focus if you don’t manage them. And the worst part? The things that knock us off balance the most and lose control… are usually the things we have no control over.
Control what you can control. Your thoughts and actions. Yes, it’s easier said than done, and I’m all for transparency, so I won’t pretend I nailed it. I forced myself to execute when I didn’t want to, and my patience with Arya was slim to none. She probably took the brunt of me being distracted — too invested in a situation that pulled me off track — and then I fell into the trap of endless second-guessing. The “what ifs.” The conversations that will never happen.
That all changed when I learned to do one thing: detach. Be like James Bond and detach — from outcomes, from situations that don’t serve my purpose, peace, or profit. By detaching, it’s easier to stay calm, controlled, collected. Humor helps keep me grounded and unbothered when things don’t go my way. I also tightened the circle of who has access to Arya. One mistake I made was letting her be open to everyone. Socialization and exposure are important, yes, but not to the point where she needs to greet everyone — especially by jumping on them.
Which lead me to something else. Taking calculated risk with Arya. Meaning, testing her to see where her skills are at. I stand by saying, don’t let your dog fail. But that doesn’t mean you can’t challenge them. Which is why I started training her near the street. I know she’ll be in a heighten state and training might not be as clean, but gives me a barometer of where she’s at. If you don’t take certain risks in life, it’ll be dull and you’ll never learn, improve or grow. And like Tony Robins says, where focus goes energy flows. Meaning if your attention is on something where it’s not serving you, you’ll stay in a negative state. The flip side, if you focus on the good energy flows towards the positives.
At the end of the day, Arya doesn’t care if I’m perfect — she just needs me to show up. And maybe that’s the whole point: progress in life and in training isn’t about never slipping, it’s about returning. Returning to the work. Returning to the moment. Letting go of the noise that doesn’t serve us, and putting our energy into what does. Dogs live this way naturally — eyes forward, ready for the next step. If we can learn to train ourselves like we train them — with patience, presence, and a willingness to take risks — we’ll find that every distraction, every setback, becomes just another rep in building the life we want.
