Wag, wag, wag.
A reflection on shame, vulnerability, and one gloriously resilient rescue pup.
You know that feeling when someone walks into a room and instantly shifts the energy?
Not because they’re loud or dramatic, but because they’re unapologetically themselves.
She walked in like that. Nose high in the air, all attitude.
The way she lifted her chest, cocked her head, and took the stairs two at a time revealed a zest for life that made me remember the abandon I sometimes feel when I forget myself and my oh-so-adult life… and just lay down in the grass, sun on my face.
Those are the moments I envy the creatures who still have their long, wagging tails.
Now she stands before us in the front hall.
Wag, wag.
Looks deep into my eyes.
Wag, wag, wag.
Offers her nose and her left ear.
Wag, wag.
And slowly, I creep towards her.
Introductions are made. A few treats are accepted. And in no time, she propels herself into the house, full of exploration and curiosity. Up the stairs to the TV room, a sniff at the crack under the door that hides two rather put-out house cats. Down to the workout room in the basement. Back up to the kitchen, still scented with breakfast. A detour to the sliding doors. And finally, back to the front hall, where her security waits in the form of one loving woman who rescued her.
The rambunctious nature of a puppy overwhelms. I watch, amazed.
Noelle only has three legs.
But that’s not what amazes me.
Noelle doesn’t seem to know she only has three legs.
No excuses. No fear of being different. No attempt to live up to “normal.”
No story about overcoming.
No affirmations practiced in therapy.
No explanation at all.
It’s not the thing she leads with.
She’s a dog. And she is quite certain there’s a treat to be found in this new place she’s been brought to explore.
To be sure, there’s vulnerability—a bit of hesitation. As a puppy, she was terribly abused—so badly that her rescuers had to amputate her leg. She’s a little cautious … but her tail gives a low, carpet-thumping wag as I gently tug at her ear.
Wag. Thump, thump.
I am a part of her rehabilitation. A small chapter in her journey to find her forever home.
She’s bonded, of course, with the woman who rescued her. But now, she needs to know that other humans can be kind. That raised hands hold balls and treats, not threats and harm.
Her story is poignant. But what awes me—truly awes me—as she nudges my leg in search of another biscuit, is this:
There is no shame in her little three-legged body.
No shame.
Huh. Imagine that.
Humans—at least the ones I know—come into coaching hoping to live into their full potential… while doing everything they can to hide their shame.
At the exact moment they’re stepping into possibility, they confront the agony of needing to conform. To stay just this side of different.
To be special, but not too special.
Unique, but not strange.
Authentic, but still palatable.
I see it everywhere. I feel it often.
The girlfriend who won’t go out without mascara.
The compassionate manager afraid his empathy makes him look weak.
The mother who can’t admit she lost her temper with her toddler.
The consultant who missed a proposal deadline.
My own hot flash of tears when last year’s size no longer fits.
That painful feeling of humiliation-of wrongness-is so isolating. So we do whatever it takes to avoid vulnerability altogether.
And yet this creature… she teaches me that shame is not inherent.
It’s not truth. It’s a story we’ve absorbed.
It’s made up.
She does not fear being judged.
She does not shrink back or apologize for her needs.
She does not lead with a wound.
Even when I feel awkward or pitying or ashamed of the cruelty that made her this way—she doesn't take it on.
She steps into her difference with grace.
She dares to trust.
She’s curious.
She experiences joy.
She bounds into the moment without apology.
No story. Just wag, wag, wag.
And because I am human, and I sometimes need the crutch of mantras and affirmations… this is my new one:
Wag, wag, wag.
Let me stand in the midst of my own messiness, my little stings of shame or awkwardness or regret—and remember that I don’t need to lead with it.
I, too, can be unapologetic in my being.
What if I let go of the story that says I need to be perfect to be worthy?
What if I trusted that even when I’m limping a little, I am still full of light?
So if you're carrying something heavy today—something bruised or less-than—remember:
You don’t have to lead with it.
There is still room for trust.
For tenderness.
For joy.
Wag, wag, wag.