A Strategic Withdraw to Protect What Matters

Self-preservation • Quiet choices • Protecting what matters

I didn't expect that rescuing a dog would come with a long and arduous battle with myself (and my husband).

The one with myself was the battle to let go of the attachment to what (I believe) is right, the guilt to let that go (all the I shoulds, I coulds, I can…more, it's not enough), me, me, me, and my. 

Like, "My other dogs are still on the streets. They are hungry, and being hunted down by the people who don't like dogs (or like them too much, they want to eat their meat)."

But, I was emotionally exhausted from the known and unknown future ahead. I couldn't bare the thought of going back there and seeing what I don't want to see (another wounded or severely sick dog)

Today I gave all that I could.

I showed up in the world with an open heart,

to love, to serve, to witness the suffering of others and my own.

And now I am tired.

I needed a break from my soul fatigue, and this was the truth that arose in me—I need to unlearn the old belief that self-love is selfish.

I have to wire this new belief into my nervous system that it's okay to step back when I am not yet strong enough to face the weight of the world. That I am not abandoning the mission—I am protecting the part of me that gives it meaning. I am not neglecting the dogs; I am nurturing the one who feeds them.

And I reframed it as;

I am not looking away—I am giving my nervous system time to come back into its center, so I don't drown in despair.

But if I go while in this fragile state, I may:

• Hurt more than help, by becoming immobilized by the pain (a guarantee, from my well-documented history).
• Drain my reserves, making it harder to return in the long run (also, a guarantee. I will eventually avoid and forever withdraw if I keep pushing).
• Start associating my sacred service with trauma, not love (hence, a mature self-awareness must take place first).

The dogs don’t need a martyr. They need me whole.

OK. Now what?

Breathe. Cry. Do whatever it takes to regain your awareness. And, maybe pray.

“I am allowed to protect the part of me that wants to save the world.

I move with wisdom and clarity, not guilt.

I act from love and strength, not fear.

When I return to service, I will be rooted, replenished, and ready.

And if I have touched even one soul with gentleness,

if I have lifted even one being away from pain, and closer to peace,

if I have stood for light in one moment of darkness—

may it be enough."

I can't take all the sufferings in the world and make them mine (Don't even go about what is happening in Gaza now, I would spiral down to the depth of depression).

Then Lao Tzu came to guide me.

"The Tao never does anything, yet through it all, things are done. When there is no desire, all things are at peace. By not wanting, there is calm, and the world will straighten itself. When there is silence, one finds the anchor of the universe within oneself." Tao Te Ching – Verse 37

Surrender. Allowing. Self-regulate.

This is what this verse spoke to me.

We’ve been taught to fear stillness. To believe that doing nothing is a failure of character. That without movement, we are lazy. Without striving, we are worth less. But what if that’s wrong? What if the constant wanting—the pushing, the grasping, the interfering—is what’s undone us?

Look around. Wars are raging. Children are starving. We mine the earth like it owes us something. Violence—toward people, toward land, forests, and oceans—often begins with a single thought: I should have what I want. That the world should bend. That others should yield. We act as if we can stop spring from blooming, or tell the monsoon when to end.

But nature doesn’t take orders. Neither should we.

Desire becomes a kind of violence when it sees everything in its way as an enemy. But what if there were no enemies? What if we let the forest grow wild, the ocean stay deep, the stranger be strange—and called none of it wrong?

Alright. Let’s begin smaller than the world.

Start within our home. Our spouse, our children, our dogs.

My husband and the front door—the one he always leaves open when he goes out to pick up his shoes, how he should drive, and what he should eat.

My dog and how he should lie down next to me. When he should pee, and how he should poop.

The noise, the silence. The sun and the sky. All the things we think should change.

Control. Control. Control!

And we know—control is an illusion. Why do we still cling to the need for control?

What if we met them with less resistance? What if we replaced expectation with a kind of calm watchfulness—not indifference, but grace?

Let it unfold.

The timing, the mess, the person across from you. Let them be. Withdraw your hand before it reaches to fix. Zip it and say nothing when you feel the urge to express your (uninvited) opinion. Withhold the urge to correct or comment. Pause before the judgment.

Let it just pass.

Because that, in the end, is what opens the heart. Not by force, but by making space. And when there is space, there is peace.

It will be a hell of a lot of discomfort to endure, but trust the process. Trust in the timing. Trust in the universal. laws. Allow your heart to open and shine by not enforcing judgments, resisting the habit of wanting to control, and getting involved.

It reminded me to keep balanced and approach life with moderation. It tamed my self-loathing, anxious, middle-aged, nervous wreck self, like a powerful antidepressant.

I am grateful and feel so blessed. I'm thankful for his wisdom; it has covered me like a big, warm blanket in the blizzard storm. It rekindled my faith in love, for myself and other beings, and stoked my fire of hope;

That kindness will always win.

Thank you for spending time with me today.

Read the full rescue story of Beckki here