Slowly Finding Happiness Again

August 18th — Last night, on our evening walk, I noticed my feet felt a little lighter. 

Early summer was one of the hardest seasons of my life. Within just a few weeks, two major things happened that shook me deeply: my dad suffered a stroke, and my boy got diagnosed with SLO (Symmetrical Lupoid Onychodystrophy).

SLO is a rare autoimmune disease that mainly affects a dog's claws. The nails become brittle, painful, and the outer layer of the nail can even peel off completely. It doesn't sound like much at first, but for a dog who walks and runs every day, it can be life-changing.

And even though we have had troubles with the nails since last October and I already had a quiet suspicion that it could be SLO, the official diagnosis still hit me like a shock.

At first, we tried a cyclosporine treatment, one of the stronger immune-suppressing medications. But he reacted so badly, with nausea and discomfort, that we had to stop. It broke my heart to see him suffer from the medicine that was supposed to help him.

Now we're managing with supplements and a circulation-supporting medication. I also check his paws regularly, trim sharp edges from the nails to prevent further tearing, and make sure his feet are as comfortable as possible. Thankfully, this summer we haven't lost any nails or had to peel them away, though they remain fragile.

Some days it's hard to know how much pain he carries. I admit, I watch him maybe too closely, but that's because I never want him to suffer more than he already has. He's my boy, and I am his guardian. His safe place. And I take that role with all the seriousness and tenderness in me.

If your dog has SLO and you somehow found your way here, I just want to tell you: you're not alone. The first shock will pass, and you will find your way through this. It can feel scary and overwhelming, but with time you'll discover the tools and routines that work for you and your pup. Give yourself the grace of patience. Dogs can still live happy, full lives with SLO, and that love you give them, I promise, makes all the difference. 💜 

At the same time, my dad's stroke brought its own layer of worry and fear. Thankfully, he survived with relatively minor consequences and received treatment very quickly and I am eternally grateful for that every single day. Yet it also reminded me of something I cannot escape: we cannot keep our parents here forever. I've already had to say goodbye to my mother years ago, and I know one day I'll have to do the same with my father. It is the circle of life, no matter how much it hurts to face.

For weeks, I couldn't feel joy. I was surviving, nothing more. Every day was filled with worry. It began the moment I started noticing those small signs in my boy—tiny flickers of discomfort, a paw held a little differently, the way his eyes sought mine as if to ask for relief. My stomach turned with every shift. My mind spun in circles, already grieving a goodbye that hadn't yet come. I thought we had so much time. And maybe we still do, but the diagnosis of SLO cast a shadow across our days, a heavy black veil I couldn't lift.

Mornings felt heavy before they even began, and nights stretched on with restless thoughts I couldn't quiet. I went through the motions of each day, but it felt like my heart was somewhere else—caught between fear and grief.

Now, as time has passed, I realize that the heaviness in my chest has started to lift. 
My boy is adapting, step by step. My dad is here, and I'm grateful. Both my dad and my boy mean the world to me, and these months have reminded me how fragile and precious our time together is. And last night, for the first time in months, I noticed I was smiling again, not out of habit, but from genuine happiness.

I feel joy and gratitude for the smallest things: going grocery shopping on an ordinary Thursday evening, listening to the soft breathing of my partner and my boy beside me. I can pause to admire a tiny lizard in the storage. And I can trust that joy is not a dangerous thing — that it's safe to let myself feel light again. 

That is who I am. That is my essence.
When I'm happy, I'm happy about the simplest, most ordinary things in life.
And I had missed that part of me.

Sure, there are moments where my shadow still rises up, the part of me that wants to hold on to worry, to prepare for the worst, to steal away the softness of the present. I've written about that shadow before, you can meet my first shadow here. 

But now, whenever I notice its presence, I welcome it in. I accept that it's here, painting worst-case scenarios, waiting for the moment when the rug is pulled out from under our feet. And yes, that could happen. I'm realistic. SLO is unpredictable. Life is unpredictable. But by accepting the presence of worry and the thoughts it brings, it loses much of its grip on me.

Little by little, joy has begun to take up more space again. The heavy days are not gone, but they are no longer all there is. More often now, I find myself smiling, breathing easier, and feeling like my normal, soft self again. 

How about you? How are you really doing these days? Do you feel light and happy? Or are you  covered in worry right now? Wherever you are, know that both are part of being human, and you are not alone in it. 🌿💜

And if you want to follow more of my soft reflections, and small joys of life, you can find me on Instagram: @selflavie. I would love to have you there.

Soft hugs,
Selflavie