Sometimes Showing Up Has Four Paws

There have been times in my life when I knew, logically, that I was safe.

My body didn't always get the memo.

That's one of the strange things about trauma.

You can be sitting in your own house.

Your children are nearby.

Nothing is happening.

You're safe.

And still, some part of your brain is scanning the room.

Listening.

Watching.

Preparing.

If you've never experienced that, it's difficult to explain.

And if you have, I probably don't need to.

As a veteran who has lived with the effects of trauma, I've learned that healing doesn't always arrive in the ways we expect it to.

Sometimes it's therapy.

Sometimes it's faith.

Sometimes it's another veteran saying, "Yeah. Me too."

Sometimes it's finally having language for something you've carried silently for years.

Sometimes it's someone who notices you're withdrawing and refuses to stop checking on you.

And sometimes, apparently, it has four paws.

When I decided to spend the 72 days leading up to Veterans Day running, telling stories, and raising money for veteran organizations, I knew I didn't want this to become another campaign where we simply say, "Support our veterans."

I want to show you what that actually means.

For September, we're raising money for Life Changing Service Dogs for Veterans, a Pittsburgh-based, all-volunteer nonprofit that raises funds to provide medically trained service dogs to veterans living with visible and invisible disabilities, including PTSD and traumatic brain injuries. The organization says it has raised more than $2.3 million and helped make service dogs possible for more than 55 veterans in our region.

And their origin story stopped me.

The organization began in 2015 when two Vietnam veterans from the South Hills of Pittsburgh, Army Lieutenant Tony Accamando and Air Force Colonel George D'Angelo, went looking for a way to address veteran suicide.

Their search led them to medical service dogs.

What began as a goal of funding 22 dogs for 22 veterans in 22 months grew into the organization doing this work today.

That's a mission I can get behind.

Especially this month.

We talk about veteran suicide in numbers.

We almost have to. Numbers help us understand the scale of a problem.

But there's a danger in numbers, too.

Eventually they can become statistics we scroll past.

A veteran contemplating suicide isn't a statistic.

It's somebody's dad.

Somebody's daughter.

Somebody's battle buddy.

Somebody who used to be the funniest person in the room.

Somebody who hasn't answered a friend's text in three days.

Somebody sitting alone in a house while their brain tells them things that aren't true.

Someone who may look completely fine from the outside.

I've spent enough time in the veteran community, and enough time understanding my own trauma, to know that there isn't one thing that prevents someone from reaching that place.

There isn't one program.

One treatment.

One conversation.

Or one dog.

But there are things that can help someone find their way back into life.

Connection is one of them.

I started reading the stories of veterans who have received these service dogs.

That's when this became much more real to me.

One veteran describes finally being able to make plans and leave the house again.

Another talks about a dog waking him during nightmares.

Another describes being able to go into public places after years of debilitating panic attacks.

And veterans on the organization's site talk openly about having contemplated suicide before being paired with their dogs.

Think about what that means for a second.

Imagine having something beside you that recognizes distress before you've figured out how to explain it.

Something trained to interrupt a nightmare.

Something that gives you a reason to walk outside.

Something beside you when a crowded room feels impossible.

Something that doesn't need you to explain why today is harder than yesterday.

Something that just stays.

There's something incredibly powerful about that.

Because trauma can make your world very small.

Healing, in so many ways, is the process of making it bigger again.

I think about the times when I've been struggling and didn't necessarily want to tell anyone.

Sometimes because I didn't have the words.

Sometimes because I didn't want to worry anyone.

Sometimes because I was the person who was supposed to have everything handled.

I'm the helper.

The mom.

The veteran advocate.

The person who gets things done.

I've built a career around community and engagement.

I've literally studied belonging.

And I can still isolate.

That's the thing about trauma.

Knowing better doesn't always mean your nervous system suddenly does better.

Which is why I've become increasingly convinced that we need to stop thinking about veteran suicide prevention as something that only happens at the moment of crisis.

It happens much earlier.

It happens when someone has somewhere to go.

When someone has a reason to get out of bed.

When someone feels useful.

When someone feels understood.

When someone realizes they're not alone.

When someone...or maybe something, gives them enough confidence to walk through the front door again.

That's prevention, too.

We're only six days into this.

And somehow, this little community we're building has already raised $150.

I know $150 isn't going to fund an entire service dog.

That's okay.

Because this was never supposed to be about one person writing one enormous check.

It's about a whole bunch of us deciding that what we have to give matters.

Five dollars matters.

Sharing a story matters.

Checking on somebody matters.

Talking honestly about mental health matters.

Running one stupid mile when you really don't feel like running matters.

Showing up matters.

That's becoming the lesson underneath this entire challenge for me.

We tend to imagine changing someone's life as this enormous heroic act.

Maybe sometimes it is.

But most of the time?

I think it's much smaller.

It's repeated.

It's ordinary.

It's somebody, or something, being there again tomorrow.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

Maybe that's why service dogs make so much sense to me.

They don't care about your resume.

They don't care what rank you were.

They don't need you to pretend you're okay.

They don't need the polished version of the story.

They just show up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Sometimes showing up has four paws.

And this September, I'm incredibly proud that our miles are helping more veterans experience what that kind of showing up can mean.

Day 6 of 72 Days of Showing Up

We've raised $150 so far for Life Changing Service Dogs for Veterans.

Let's keep going.

One mile. One story. One veteran at a time.