REFLECTION

It’s been a long six-ish months. I’ve taken the last few weeks to really sit with the challenges, and failures that resulted in some pretty hard hits. I have needed to step away and take time to breathe, to process, and to be honest with myself about the toll it's all taken. I won’t lie to you —I’ve been burnt out.

In the last year, I’ve experienced two major losses.

First was Pippin—my wild little firecracker. She was just as sweet as she was spirited, and losing her suddenly to the autoimmune disease she’d fought her whole life was a gut punch I did not see coming so soon.

Then came Beau—a different kind of heartbreak. After a lot of reflection on my skills as a handler, what I wanted for my pack, and what Beau needed to thrive, I made the incredibly hard decision to rehome him. I loved him—still do—but I had to accept that I wasn’t the right fit to bring out his best. Keeping him in a situation that didn’t set either of us up for success wouldn’t have been fair.

These losses have pushed me into some very raw, but honest conversations—with myself and with others.

"We do not learn from experience... we learn from reflecting on experience."

— John Dewey

I can tell you it’s been eye opening and deeply humbling. I really thought I’d done my homework— by asking about health and temperament testing (Volhard). But the truth is, I didn’t know anything about what I was doing and wasn’t even close to being prepared.

I’ve learned Genetics DO matter—a lot. Coming from the small dog world, I assumed genetics were just about bloodlines—who the dog came from like a family tree, not how that shaped who they were. I didn’t realize how much deeper it goes, especially when you're working with complex, working bred dogs.

They lay the groundwork for stability, drive, and everything in between. Without that foundation, you’re starting uphill. Raising a breed this complex takes more than good intentions—it requires a deep understanding from the very beginning. It’s not as simple as choosing a new breed, reading a few blogs, talking to experienced people, or even living with one for a while. That might be a start—but it’s not enough.

Looking back, as a handler pulling a 6-month-old German Shepherd out of a complicated situation, I realized I lacked the behavioral knowledge needed to lay the crucial foundation—one that took into account the lines, temperament, and history he came with. Even though we trained every day, went on walks, and I hand-fed him as much as he would do, it still wasn’t enough. The effort was there, but the deeper understanding wasn’t—and that made all the difference.

The more time I have taken to educate myself and learn from this experience the more I learn how incredibly broken dog world is. From breeding, training, healthcare and yes even rescue. As I learn from my failures that are still painful, I can look people in the eye and tell them what I would do differently at every step of the way. 

Let’s talk about the burnout for a minute. I’ve been deep in puppy land for the last year with my own dogs, and on top of that, I signed myself up as a foster mom—committing to back-to-back care without much space to breathe. It took a toll I wasn’t fully prepared for, not just on me, but on my entire pack. Fostering is both beautiful and brutal. It’s easy to fall in love with the idea of giving a dog a second chance, to say “yes” with the best intentions—but the reality is far more complicated. Each foster comes with their own story, their own needs, and their own path to success.

Caring for these dogs means sleepless nights, constant cleanup, teaching boundaries and life skills, navigating medical issues, and then—just as they start to settle—they’re off to begin the rest of their lives. Without pause or proper support, it becomes consuming. Burnout doesn’t hit all at once; it creeps in quietly, even for the most dedicated fosters. And still, there's that internal pressure to say yes to “just one more.” What begins with love can slowly become overwhelming—not from a lack of care, but from giving too much of it, too often, without space to recover. 

As I continue to process all that this past year has brought and  taken a conscious step back—to rest, to reflect, and to reassess where my priorities truly lie and what I want moving forward. For now, this means stepping away from formal rescue work. Shifting my focus to recharging, nurturing my pack, and grounding in the roots that first sparked this journey.

There may be another pack member in our future, but I’m not rushing the decision. Whether it leads me back into the world of shepherds or brings another sassy little dachshund into our lives, I trust I’ll know when the time is right. In the meantime, my commitment to the dog world and make it a better place not only for them but their humans too remains strong—continuing my work with Bear, deepening my skills as a handler and trainer, and reconnecting with the parts of this journey that truly fuel me. This season is about returning to what fills my cup and grounds me in the passion that started it all.

I’m also learning—perhaps the hardest lesson yet—that it’s okay to slow down and seek balance. That building a joyful, stable pack life and contributing to the rescue world don’t have to compete. It’s not about doing everything at once—it’s about doing it with clarity, heart, and intention.

More to come soon . . . ✨