What Dog Grooming Taught Me About Facing Fear (Even When You're Shaking)

Tonight, I groomed my dog.

She knew it was coming the minute I picked her up and started carrying her downstairs. Somehow she always knows what's coming—the way we all do when something we've been avoiding is suddenly in motion. Like when your dentist texts "just confirming tomorrow!" and your mouth suddenly tastes like guilt and forgotten floss.

She never resists at the outset. That part is the calm before the storm, like me right before I open my credit card statement after a "self-care" weekend.

The Weekly Bath vs. Monthly Grooming

The weekly bath routine is predictable. There's warm water, a scrub, a towel rub at the end. Not great, but not terrible. She knows the drill and accepts it with minimal resistance.

But it's on grooming weeks—when I change the routine and give her a haircut before the bath—that the real resistance kicks in.

As soon as I set her down next to the clippers, she walks away from me and straight into the shower. It's her safe space, her attempt to redirect us back to the familiar routine she can tolerate.

She stands in there, then slowly turns away from me and stares at the wall. Perfectly still. Refusing to look in my direction, like if she doesn't make eye contact, she can delay the inevitable. Like if she's still enough, long enough, maybe the grooming won't happen at all.

She shakes. She braces. She anticipates disaster. And the truth is—nothing that bad ever happens.

Well, except for the haircut itself. She gets trimmed with all the precision of a toddler using safety scissors, ending up with a look I can only describe as shelter dog chic. But does she really care about looking like she lost a fight with a lawn mower? Probably not.

Despite my questionable styling skills, she's okay. Actually, she's more than okay. She's more comfortable. She's calmer. And she smells better (OK, that part is solely for my benefit). And the best part? She's blissfully unaware that other dogs are snickering behind her back at her aesthetic.

The Human Version of Doggy Drama

And it made me think: we do this too.

We walk ourselves into situations we can tolerate. The known discomforts. The ones we've made peace with. But when it's time to step forward into the next hard thing—the one that actually brings change—we freeze. We pretend not to hear the call. We stare at the wall. We shake a little. We wait, hoping maybe it'll go away.

But it doesn't. Avoiding it doesn't make it disappear. It just delays the peace on the other side.

This is what fear teaches us. That we don't have to feel ready in order to move. That resisting change doesn't make it any easier—it just prolongs our discomfort. Facing fear doesn't mean we stop shaking. It means we show up anyway.

The Soggy Dog Philosophy of Life

So maybe the lesson is this: it's okay to be scared. It's okay to stall. But eventually, we've got to towel off, put on our big girl pants, and walk out of the shower.

Because the clippers might buzz and the process might not be pretty, but we'll come out of it freer. Lighter. A little less tangled. And a whole lot closer to who we really are.

P.S. My dog would like you to know that no animals were harmed in the making of this metaphor—just mildly embarrassed by their new haircut.