Letting Go Gracefully: How a Dog’s Accident Helped Me Heal
Inside this Article:
The Day That Began Like Any Other
Before coffee could hit my bloodstream, the phone rang. "Julie, he's drinking again." The familiar panic surged. A family member had relapsed—again.
After two decades in Al-Anon, I should’ve been calm. Grounded. Wise. Instead, anxiety crept back like a thief. My thoughts spun: How bad would it get this time? Was there anything I could do?
In walked Clyde, my 100-pound yellow Labrador, his tail wagging like sunshine. He didn’t know about addiction or consequences. Just walk time.
He was my emotional reset. Always had been.
Walks and Worries
I grabbed my iPod, Clyde trotted behind me. We live in rural Georgia—acres of pines, dirt roads, and privacy. Clyde didn’t need a leash; he never chased, never strayed.
The sun was rising, humidity heavy. As we walked, I drowned myself in music, trying to shut off my thoughts.
I remembered what B.J., my Al-Anon sponsor, had told me just weeks ago:
“You don’t turn the world, Julie. God does. Your job is to let go and trust.”
But letting go had always felt like failure. Like weakness.
Disaster in an Instant
We were almost home when I noticed something was wrong. Clyde wasn’t beside me.
Earbuds out. Heart pounding.
I called for him. Silence.
Then I saw him—dragging a leg, blood on his paws, body shivering. He’d been hit. Somehow he’d wandered toward the road, something he’d never done.
He collapsed at my feet.
My mind screamed: This is my fault.
No leash. No awareness. No control.
The Agonizing Drive
He couldn’t walk, not far. But when I gently called “Heel,” Clyde rose. Step by step, he limped to the car—250 feet of pain and courage.
I drove straight to the vet. Clyde collapsed on the seat. His breathing was shallow.
At the clinic, the vet said words I’ll never forget:
“He may have pneumothorax—a collapsed lung. Could be a fractured hip. We’ll do X-rays and keep him under observation. It’s serious.”
I texted B.J.: “Clyde hit. At vet. Please pray.”
Then I waited.
The Waiting Room and the Whisper
By noon, I couldn't stand it. I drove back to the clinic. Halfway there, B.J. called.
“You know what you have to do.”
“I shouldn't have let him off leash. I shouldn't have—”
“Julie,” she interrupted. “Let go. Trust. No matter what.”
I pulled into the parking lot, hands tight on the wheel. My grip hurt.
Then I remembered the Al-Anon mantra:
Let go and let God.
I slowly released my hands from the wheel, palms open to the sky.
And I whispered, “I trust you.”
Grace in X-Ray Sheets
The vet appeared.
“It’s a miracle,” she said. “Collapsed lung, yes. But no fractures. He’ll need rest and medicine, but he’ll make it. That deep barrel chest saved him.”
I sobbed with gratitude. Clyde came wobbling into the room. Head heavy, eyes bright. He placed his snout in my lap.
I kissed him a thousand times.
What I Learned from a Limping Lab
🐾 1. Guilt Is Not the Same as Responsibility
I blamed myself, but it was an accident. Mistakes do not make us failures—they make us human.
🐾 2. Control Is a Comfortable Illusion
We spend our lives trying to control outcomes, but the universe often has other plans. Letting go is not giving up—it’s trusting in something greater.
🐾 3. Love Heals in Both Directions
While I was trying to save Clyde, he was saving me. Through him, I reconnected with faith, humility, and grace.
🐾 4. Letting Go Is a Daily Choice
B.J. reminded me again:
“You don’t just let go once, Julie. You do it every day, for the rest of your life.”
Letting Go and Recovery Resources
If you're struggling to let go of control, here are some helpful links:
Final Reflections
As Clyde lay sleeping beside me that night, breathing slow and steady, I whispered,
“We’re both still here. And we’re going to be okay.”
In a world full of chaos and cracked bones, sometimes it takes a limping dog to teach you the most powerful spiritual truth:
Let go. And trust.