I was diagnosed with clinical depression at 42. Life felt like it had lost its color. I went through the motions—work, home, sleep—but there was no joy, no energy, and worst of all, no connection.
Then came Rosie.
My sister, concerned for my isolation, gifted me a golden retriever puppy. At first, I was angry. A puppy? In my state? I could barely take care of myself. But Rosie, with her floppy ears and clumsy paws, didn’t care. She just wanted to be near me.
She didn’t try to fix me. She didn’t ask what was wrong. She simply was—a warm body at my feet, a wagging tail when I walked in the door, a reason to get up in the morning.
The first time I laughed in months was when she tried to “help” me fold laundry by lying on it. Her joy was contagious. Her presence, healing.
Studies now show what I learned firsthand: dogs help lower cortisol, ease anxiety, and encourage movement. But more than that, they offer non-judgmental love. They sit with us in our worst moments, never asking for anything except to be with us.
Rosie is now five. I’m not “cured,” but I’m better. And every day, she reminds me: I matter. I’m loved. I’m needed.
Sometimes, the best therapist has four legs and fur.
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