It was 4:22 a.m. again. The number synchronicities I've been seeing lately. Just the night before I was awake at the same time...4:22 a.m.
Fern needed to go out, and I was half-asleep, but something about the night felt too still. She usually does her business and comes right back, tail wagging softly in the dark, scratches at the door. Ten minutes passed. No sound of paws at the door.
I went out, I called her name once, twice, again. Nothing. She usually comes running within seconds.
My chest tightened. That old familiar panic started to rise — the kind that bypasses logic and goes straight to the nervous system. I grabbed a flashlight and stepped into the yard, calling her again. Usually her eyes reflect off the light. My voice echoed back at me. I knew she wasn’t there. I could feel it. That deep intuitive knowing that every cell in your body recognizes before your mind even catches up.
I continued to walk around, leaves crunching under my slippers, calling her, the moon full and bright above me.
Then she finally came running back through the yard with a force of energy, I felt both relief and tears sting my eyes. I discovered in the morning light that the board we’d placed along the fence for puppy-proofing 4 years ago had fallen over. She must have slipped out, wandering and sniffing around at the neigbouring street that is behind our backyard fence and neighbours. But she heard me and she found her way back.
This morning, as I told my kids, I cried. Because it wasn’t just about Fern running off for a few minutes. It was the wave of everything that moment awakened — the grief, the fear, the memories.
I had lots of dogs growing up and I loved every one of them, but I lost two dogs tragically as a child. One was hit by a car. The other was killed by our neighbour’s dogs. Both losses left something unspoken lodged inside me — a tender place that never fully stopped bracing for loss. When you lose something you love suddenly, your nervous system learns to prepare for the worst even when everything looks fine.
So when Fern didn’t come, my mind didn’t just wonder where she went. My body remembered what it felt like to lose.
She’s only four. And I can’t fathom losing her.
These moments remind me how easily attachment and fear weave together. How love — especially for our animals — becomes this beautiful, primal, unconditional bond that’s also laced with the ache of impermanence. Fern isn’t just my dog; she’s comfort, companionship, grounding, and pure heart all wrapped in fur.
Sometimes I see how tightly I hold on — not just to her, but to the illusion that I can control or protect everything I love. That’s what trauma does. It teaches you that safety is something you must earn or guard, rather than something you can simply rest in.
But healing — the kind that lives in the body — invites me to soften that grip. To notice when fear is whispering stories that aren’t true anymore. To breathe into the space between love and control. To remember that attachment doesn’t have to mean anxiety.
Maybe Fern running off was another quiet lesson from the universe — a reminder to trust what I love to find its way home.
Because love isn’t about holding on so tightly that nothing can move. It’s about presence. It’s about gratitude for the paws that return, the warmth beside you in the morning, the gift of another day together.
So this morning, I held her a little longer. I told her thank you — for coming back, for teaching me trust, for helping me remember that safety isn’t always about walls and fences. Sometimes it’s about faith.
And maybe love, after all, isn’t about keeping things from running loose…
but learning to trust that what’s meant for you will always find its way home.
If you’ve ever loved and lost an animal, you know how their presence becomes woven into your heartbeat.
What if every goodbye, every moment of panic, every reunion is really an invitation—to trust love a little more deeply, and to remember that safety lives inside you, too?