Today is World Animal Day, and it feels fitting that today is also the day I officially became a failed foster. Six weeks ago, two Boston Terriers came home with me on what was supposed to be a temporary basis.
Before they came into foster, they had spent around two months in our care while we tried to understand and manage a medical condition affecting one of them. She suffers from Canine Cramping Syndrome, a condition that causes painful tremors. When she first arrived, these episodes were happening every few days.
Working alongside our vet, we explored different dietary changes. First, we removed wheat and gluten from her diet, as this can help reduce symptoms. Whilst there was some improvement, the change wasn't dramatic enough. We then moved both dogs onto a raw diet and I offered to foster them so that their condition could be monitored more closely in a home environment, particularly during the evenings when we had less information about what was happening.
She experienced a tremor on her second day with me. And then none. The journey wasn't entirely straightforward. Although the raw diet appeared to stop the tremors, the higher protein levels began causing skin issues, meaning we had to rethink their diet once again. Fingers crossed, we are now two weeks into those changes and still no tremors.
What was supposed to be a medical fostering arrangement slowly became something more. I've always owned Labradors and Retrievers. Large dogs are what I know. The idea of sharing my home with two small Boston Terriers felt completely foreign to me.
Yet somehow, they found a way straight into my heart.
Everyone around me was convinced I would end up keeping them. I insisted they were wrong. I wasn't keeping them. I couldn't.
The reason I gave wasn't practical. It wasn't financial. It wasn't even really about time. The story I kept telling myself was much simpler than that. I wasn't enough.
These girls adore cuddles. They love curling up on a lap. They enjoy trips out and accompanying me to dog-friendly coffee shops. My life can be busy and sometimes chaotic. I convinced myself they deserved someone who could give them more. A better home. A more perfect home.
As the weeks passed, I knew letting them go would be incredibly difficult, but I had convinced myself there was no choice. Looking back now, I realise I was only seeing the situation through my own eyes.
I never stopped to see it through theirs. They had established a routine. They knew where they belonged. They had regular meals, comfortable beds, endless cuddles, a dog friend and a cat friend to pester, and a human they trusted completely.
What more were they asking for? The answer, of course, was nothing.
The only person asking for perfection was me. When I finally stopped and examined my thinking, I recognised an old pattern. One that has accompanied me through different stages of my life.
The belief that unless I can do something perfectly, I shouldn't do it at all. The belief that being "good enough" somehow falls short. It's a way of thinking that can be incredibly destructive. It keeps us constantly striving whilst never allowing ourselves to arrive. It asks us to meet impossible standards and then criticises us for not reaching them.
Years ago, I would have listened to that voice. Thankfully, today I don't.
As a counsellor, I often speak to clients about noticing the stories we tell ourselves. We all have them. Sometimes they become so familiar that we stop questioning whether they are true.
The story I was telling myself was that I wasn't enough for these dogs. The story they were telling me was completely different.
Every cuddle.
Every wagging bum.
Every contented sigh as they settled beside me.
Every look of trust.
Their version of the story was simple.
You are home.
I had created an image of the "perfect" home in my head and measured myself against it. But does a perfect home actually exist? Or is perfection simply an impossible standard that prevents us from appreciating what is already there?
What I know for certain is that I can offer these girls safety. I can offer consistency.
I can offer love. I can offer a commitment to care for them for the rest of their lives.
And perhaps most importantly, I can offer them someone who is willing to do their best.
That is enough. I am enough.
Even writing those words feels uncomfortable. But it also feels true.
These girls have taught me so much in the short time they have been with me. They have taught me the value of slowing down. They have given me permission to stop in the middle of a busy day and simply sit quietly for a cuddle. They have reminded me that connection matters more than perfection.
Most of all, they have encouraged me to look at myself with a little more kindness. Maybe that is what seeing the world through their eyes has really given me.
The chance to start loving myself a little more like they love me. And that might be the greatest gift they could ever have offered.
Reflections from Practice and Life
As a counsellor, I often work with people who carry a belief that they are somehow not enough. Not successful enough, capable enough, lovable enough or deserving enough. These beliefs can become so familiar that we stop questioning them and simply accept them as truth.
My own version of that story surfaced during these past six weeks.
It reminded me that self-compassion is rarely about believing we are perfect. Instead, it is about recognising our humanity, accepting our limitations and understanding that we can still be worthy of love and connection exactly as we are.
