A new tech started at the clinic today. Fresh out of school, full of energy and questions. She reminded me of myself, years ago, back when I thought caring was enough to carry me through anything.

Midway through the shift, a husky came in barely able to breathe. Not critical, or dying, just panicked. Loud and big, the kind of dog that fills the room with chaos even when he’s not trying to. The new tech froze. I saw it happen the way her hands hovered, unsure, her eyes darting to the exit.

I stepped in, not to take over, just to anchor it.

"Let’s get him on the floor," I said gently. "He’s scared, not mean. Just go slow. Remember to breathe first, then move."

She followed my lead, and we got through it. No heroics, just work, and when it was done, she looked at me like I’d just saved the day.

"I don’t think I can do this," she said quietly as we cleaned up.

I rinsed my hands and gave her a towel. "You don’t have to do it all today. Just this part."

She nodded. That was enough for now.

Later, after everyone had gone home, I stayed behind to finish charting. The clinic was silent in the way it only is when no one’s left but the ghosts. The hum of the fridge, the click of the ceiling fan, the echo of things not said.

I remembered Jo once telling me healing wasn’t linear. That progress didn’t mean never falling again; it meant getting back up with less fear. I hadn’t understood it then, but I think I do now.

On the walk home, the streets were wet with rain that had already passed. The sky above was clearing, the kind of dusk that makes everything look softer. I moved slowly, no rush, no urgency to fix, to chase, to prove.

Maybe I wasn’t where I wanted to be yet.

But I knew, finally, that I was somewhere worth being.