Month: December 2020

The Clean Slate

I can be your lucky penny. You can be my four-leaf clover. Starting over.

There’s nothing more tantalizing than the prospect of a fresh start.

Whether its boots sinking into a fresh blanket of snow or the sight of a wide-open highway in front of us, the prospect of beginning again is all-powerful.

There might be nothing like the first time, but the second go is still pretty special. For we have both the memories of the first experience to guide us and the residual novelty to excite us.

The fresh start keeps us plowing forward. It revitalizes our sense of wonder. It unveils the potential for a brighter future.

We bask in its majesty. We revel in its opportunity. And each year, as the calendar turns over, we pay homage.

We dress up and stay up late. We eat fancy foods and drink high-class libations. We dream of the new people we’ll be when the clock strikes 12 and the year begins again.

I’ve long railed against this tradition. It all seems so arbitrary and fake to me.

I don’t feel any different on January 1st than I did on December 31st. I never have, and I likely never will.

Yes, we do grow over time. But this process happens gradually, not in an instant.

So, while everyone else is partying it up, I’m playing it down. I’m treating my evolution like a marathon, not a sprint.

This is how I’ve operated for years.

But it might be time to take a fresh look at that stance.

Constants.

These are critical elements in what is known as STEM fields — science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.

Those in the STEM industries solve some of our biggest problems. They’re responsible for many of the innovations that we take for granted these days — such as connected devices, reliable roads, and advanced pharmaceuticals.

Such features have made our world better, and we’ve greatly benefited from them. But they’re all built on a foundation of constants.

Essentially, the scientists and engineers who come up with these solutions base their work on a simple question: Keeping everything else the same, what happens if I make this one change?

By framing the question this way, STEM professionals are controlling the environment. They’re doing what they can to establish a clear cause-and-effect relationship.

That relationship will help turn their question into action. It will transform their experimentation into products, patents, and other tangible solutions.

This is a powerful, proven process. But it does have a catch.

By relying on constants — by only changing one item at a time — we only allow for incremental change. There is no room for flashy wholesale disruptions. There is only tinkering with the status quo.

Wholesale changes are just too volatile, too messy, too difficult to explain. And so, STEM professionals generally try to avoid them. The risk is not worth the reward.

Constants matter. This should be evident now more than ever.

What happens when the ground quakes? When the wave crests? When the world as we knew it ceases to be relevant?

We start grasping, clutching, straining for the familiar. We search in vain for something that is no longer there.

It’s disorienting. Confusing. Terrifying.

We all recognize that feeling now. Whether we live in California or Chattanooga, Florida, or Fargo. We know what it’s like to see our lives turned upside down.

Such is the nature of pandemics. They pack the sweeping force of a tsunami and the destructive aftershocks of an earthquake.

Pandemics force us to abruptly abandon our plans, our dreams, and our objectives. They force us to acknowledge that the goalposts have changed.

For in the eye of the storm, nothing is constant. Everything is fluid — meaning we must adjust in order to survive.

And so, we do what is necessary to make it through.

At first, we are filled with adrenaline. We are compelled to rise to the occasion. We are inspired to do our part to ensure normalcy.

But eventually, the rush wears off. The bleakness of our new reality persists, and hopelessness abounds.

As the familiar fades further into the rearview, we lose a sense of ourselves. We find it harder to recognize who we were before everything crumbled around us. We struggle to recall what we’d once hoped to achieve.

As the fog grows thicker, all we want is a way out. A clean slate. A fresh start.

And the longer the darkness persists, the more we are tempted to run into the fray. To sacrifice all the gains we’ve made.

Yes, survival is an unparalleled test of the will.

It pushes our limits. It drains our resolve. And it can poison our minds if we’re not careful.

This is why it’s important for us to prepare ourselves for crisis. And that training should take place between the ears.

In 1965, Jim Stockdale’s life changed forever.

Stockdale, a Naval fighter pilot, was captured in North Vietnam after his aircraft was shot down in battle. He would spend the next 7 years as a prisoner of war, subject to torture and brutal living conditions. After his release and return to the United States, Stockdale was awarded the Medal of Honor. He retired from the Navy with the rank of Vice-Admiral.

Stockdale’s story is one of perseverance and overcoming long odds. But what piqued my interest was the heuristic Stockdale used to survive more than 2,700 days in captivity.

Stockdale recognized quickly that there was a fine line between faith and false hope. That recognizing a dire situation wasn’t the same as accepting it.

In his book Good to Great, Jim Collins describes Stockdale’s philosophy like this:

You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end — which you can never afford to lose — with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.

Collins famously termed this heuristic The Stockdale Paradox. It’s a pattern that many leaders of business and public service offices follow today.

But why should such gains be limited to the bigwigs? I believe we can all take a cue from Stockdale.

For we are at a point of transition. A point where the calendar flips and we are gifted with a clean slate.

It’s easy to view this as a period of endless possibilities. As a time full of hope. As a moment unburdened by the weight of the past.

But that wouldn’t be quite right, would it?

No, the events that have so deeply challenged us — the pandemic and its effects — they won’t magically disappear when the clock strikes 12 on New Year’s. That baggage will remain.

It’s important for us to recognize this. To see the brutal facts of our reality for what they are, what they have been, and what they will continue to be.

And yet, it’s also crucial for us to accept the gift of our clean slate. To see the possibilities that lie ahead, and to have faith in our ability to attain them.

So, I’m giving this ritual of turning the calendar over another chance.

For the traditions and customs might be tacky and overblown. But there’s still a lot of good that can be gleaned from this moment.

And it is our obligation to soak it up.

Sparking Joy

It’s the most wonderful time of the year.

How often have you heard these words? Probably quite a bit.

There’s a good reason for this. As the weather gets colder and the daylight gets shorter, a sense of wonder overcomes us.

It doesn’t matter which hardships we’ve faced, or what challenges still lie ahead. Almost by instinct, we are filled with bliss as the calendar reaches its nadir.

There are gifts to purchase, light displays to peruse, and loved ones to share the time with. Our hearts are full, and our gripes are forgotten.

At least that’s the way it’s traditionally been. But now, everything is different.

Or is it?

For many, the holiday season has long been the most miserable time of the year.

There can be a physiological explanation for this sense of misery. After all, the winter chill cuts to the bone, causing us to shiver in discomfort. And the lack of sunlight can drag down our mood — a condition known as Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder.

But there are other causes for the pall that many reckon with during this period.

One key cause is depression. This is a condition that has long been stigmatized in our society. And so, those afflicted with it feel compelled to suffer in silence.

Dealing with depression is challenging enough throughout the year. But in a time where marketers, media figures, neighbors, and our loved ones are all doubling down on happiness, those battling darker emotions often feel even more marginalized.

The choices are stark. Suffer silently in the shadows or put on a fake smile and join the revelry.

Neither is helpful for those facing an existential crisis.

So yes, it would seem that even the best of traditions — a time of the year when we spread kindness — has a dark side to it.

And these days, more of us are discovering this dark side. The worst health crisis of our lifetimes is like a slow-motion car wreck. The death tolls and economic hardship cast a long shadow that we can’t just turn away from once Frosty the Snowman starts showing up on TV.

Perhaps the most insidious part of this virus is the way it affects our social connections. Gathering together is a hallmark of our society. It’s how we find prosperity and fulfillment. It’s how we grow our influence and gain protection.

But with a lethal virus spreading like wildfire, such actions lead to outsize danger. And so, we avoid them at all costs.

Now, this is not to say all is lost. Technology has helped fill the gap, allowing us to socialize, seek entertainment, and shop in a virtual setting. But some societal aspects can’t be as seamlessly adjusted to a digital screen. And holiday traditions are prime among those.

Even as we reimagine those traditions for a world where the act of gathering in person is taboo, these measures ring hollow.

The most wonderful time of the year seems anything but.

Find what sparks joy.

It seems like a simple edict. But it can be mesmerizingly frustrating to pull off.

This is why Marie Kondo is such a popular figure in our society. Her ability to tap into the zeitgeist of sparking joy is not a trivial matter. Neither is her penchant for finding a productive outlet for this pursuit — decluttering our homes.

Marie Kondo helps give language to something we feel deeply but struggle to describe. She makes our lives better by making this treasured sensation relatable.

It’s an impressive feat. But not an unprecedented one.

For plenty of household names have cut their teeth at the root of joy.

Coca-Cola’s motto has long been Open Happiness. This branding is as effective as it is simple. (Think about it. Have you ever been miserable drinking a Coke?)

Meanwhile, Nike has helped people find a different kind of bliss. Matching style, athletic performance, and the tagline Just Do It, Nike has inspired millions to kindle the joy of achievement.

And then there is the master of all joy sparkers — Disney. What started with uplifting movies featuring fairy tales and a gregarious mouse has turned into a full-on dopamine factory. There’s merchandise galore to buy. There are TV channels and streaming services available day and night. And there’s a sprawling theme park dubbed The Happiest Place On Earth.

Scoff at all this if you’d like. But the talents of Disney, Nike, Coca-Cola, and Marie Kondo are undeniable. The truckloads of money we throw their way underscore this fact.

When it comes to sparking joy, we trust these brands and personalities more than we trust ourselves.

But it doesn’t have to be this way.

When I was a child, I was scared of the dark.

Terrified, really.

My parents were well aware of this. So, they plugged a night light into my bedroom wall socket. That night light would cast a faded glow on the four corners of the room, letting me know that everything was still there.

This solution quickly yielded new problems. I used to pitch a fit whenever we’d take an overnight trip since it meant I might sleep somewhere without a night light.

It was a valid concern. For while some hosts — like my grandparents — kept a night light in their guest rooms, others — like the Red Roof Inn off the highway — did not.

Fortunately, this phase did not last forever. It was an arduous process, but I eventually learned to accept the practice of sleeping in the dark.

I let go of my inhibitions. I embraced the silence of the abyss. I even found joy in it.

I see some similarities between my journey back then and the moment we face now. For, while the world might seem unfathomably dark, we are adaptable. With enough practice and persistence, we can reckon with the curveballs thrown our way. We might even find the slivers of joy within it.

For joy may seem like a grandiose emotion. But it starts in small places.

So, as we settle into new routines, let’s remain optimistic. Let’s search for signs of delight and wonder. And let’s use those to spark joy at a time when it’s so badly needed.

The power is in our hands. Let’s make this a wonderful time of the year once again.

Fair To Middlin’

It was a familiar routine.

Every week, as the sun hovered in the western sky, I would board a city bus. When the bus reached the other side of the park, I would disembark and step into the waiting room of a doctor’s office. About an hour later, I’d re-emerge and head home.

This is a normal scene for anyone seeking treatment in the big city, where parking and rush hour traffic are appointment-busting nightmares.

But I didn’t take the bus by choice. I did so by necessity.

I didn’t have a driver’s license, let alone a car. I couldn’t have either of those things.

For I was only 11 years old.

And that bus? It was ferrying me from my school to my therapist.

Looking back now, it all looks so strange. 11-year-olds are usually playing videogames with their friends. They’re enjoying the final days of youthful innocence, before the trials of adolescence kick in.

They generally are not traveling across town by themselves to sit in a plush chair and talk to a shrink.

But I was.

Depression had taken its toll on me, bringing black clouds to sunny days. I was in a funk, and nothing could cheer me up.

I remember thinking that I couldn’t fit into the world and that I was just wasting space by continuing to exist in it. I remember contemplating taking my own life.

And I remember my parents getting me help.

That’s how I ended up making this trek, week-in, and week-out.

But while I knew my mind wasn’t right, I also felt embarrassed about the whole situation. What would my classmates say if they found out? Wouldn’t that revelation just make things worse?

So, I kept the whole routine a secret. I snuck off to the bus stop when no one was looking. And I would duck below the bus windows until it entered the park.

With the city skyline behind me and a canopy of trees in my midst, I could exhale.

Only then would I feel safe.

The early days were touch and go.

Steering a conversation with any 11-year-old — let alone a depressed one — is like herding cats. So, my therapist mostly asked me to talk about my life.

I suppose the idea was to provide me a release. To let the steam escape from the pressure cooker of my mind.

But I was filled with shame. I was ashamed that I sitting in a therapist’s office, while my classmates were off living normal lives.

The shame permeated. It was all I could think about. And so, I made little progress.

At some point, the topic of medication came up. It seemed to be a way out of my quagmire, so I was cautiously optimistic.

My therapist was more guarded. He told me the drugs would make me feel funny, and I needed to be ready for that.

I wasn’t.

I declined the medication and resigned myself to my new pattern of school and therapy.

The sessions eventually became routine — a messed up version of Groundhog’s Day. While I still yearned to be normal, I started to take a measure of solace in the repetition.

But then, things started to change.

I began to realize that I would need to find my own solutions. That I would need to identify the dark clouds on the horizon before they swallowed me whole.

So, I started working at it. I tossed ideas around in my therapy sessions, and I put them into practice. I took control of my emotions, rather than letting them control me.

By the time I was 13, I felt better. I was out of therapy, and I had a better grip on my life.

I tore through middle school and most of high school with a newfound burst of confidence. I tried new things. I made new friends.

But by the time I was 17, I felt those black clouds on the horizon again.

I knew what to do. I sought help.

Things were different this time. For one thing, I had a car. So, I didn’t have to slink away on a city bus to make my therapy sessions.

But beyond that, I had an agenda. I would come to each session full of questions and ideas. I would seek counsel more than treatment. I would aim to cure myself.

It took patience and persistence. But by the time I hit the home stretch of high school, I was out of therapy once again.

I’ve battled bouts of depression on occasion in the years since. But these days, I have the tools to fight through them on my own.

I am patient. I am resilient. And I am willing to be vulnerable.

Such traits have likely saved my life, many times over.

Fair to middlin’.

This phrase has a long legacy in the heartland.

When we’re fair to middlin’, we’re getting by. The outlook might not be the rosiest. But we’re surviving, day by day.

As I’ve navigated the choppy waters of depression throughout the years, I’ve come to embrace this philosophy.

Life might not be a picture-perfect postcard. And I might not be normal. But getting by is fine enough by me.

I’m more at peace than I used to be. And yet, a part of me will always be restless.

For I’m still trying to play detective. I’m still aiming to uncover precisely what sent things south when I was young.

There’s lots of research on both the Autism spectrum and introversion these days — much more than existed when I first encountered depression. I don’t know if these factors led to my issues, but I have my theories.

Still, while the roots of my ailment remain a mystery, my mission is crystal clear.

No longer can I hide my tribulations. There is no shame in sharing my story; on the contrary, the biggest danger is in keeping it silent.

There are others out there who are struggling now, just as I once was. I need to be there for them.

Especially now.

There is a silent epidemic sweeping our nation.

Much like the pathogen that’s turned our lives upside down, this epidemic can’t be seen by the human eye. But it can certainly be felt.

Forced isolation and economic stagnation might slow the spread of a deadly virus. But they also carry a heavy toll.

These practices separate us from two core pillars of society — social connections and breadwinning. When we lose the ability to share with others or earn our keep, we find ourselves lost and without hope. The dark clouds roll in.

There’s been a lot of talk about mental health recently. These have been tough times, and many are looking to make the discomfort go away.

I don’t think everyone discussing mental health concerns is battling depression. But there certainly are many who are.

Yes, some of these people will seek assistance, as I once had. And some will find the strength to claw their way out of the pit of despair, as I once did.

But banking on those outcomes across the board is reckless. There are still many in the throes of depression, who need our help to get out of the rut.

It’s on us to be there for them. It’s on us to listen to them. It’s on us to provide a guiding light.

Now more than ever.

Our mission is clear. Let’s make it happen.

Wealth vs. Fame

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

How often have we heard this phrase?

And yet, we seem to have misconceptions about what it truly means.

On its face, this message is an edict that success is double-edged. It states that making it big means selling our soul. It tells us that who we are and who we want to be are forever incompatible.

Because once we attain a position of influence, our vantage point shifts. We conveniently forget what life was like before the climb.

All we see is our position on the summit. And we are determined to hold on to that spot.

We are immensely powerful. And we are thoroughly corrupted.

The prophecy fulfills itself.

And yet, the prophecy is a myth.

Across America, there is an uneasy divide.

This divide is Red States versus Blue States. It’s farmers in overalls versus Wall Street bankers in fancy suits. It’s bright city lights versus one-horse towns.

We have many ways to explain what forms this chasm. Political ideologies. Education systems. Community surroundings.

But I think there’s a better explanation.

I believe the fault lines form between those who aspire for influence and those who repel its grip.

For we are all aware of the perils of power. And we are cognizant of the unsavory ways it can transform us.

We’ve read the slogans. We’ve heard the cautionary tales.

And yet, some of us find ourselves drawn to power’s radiant glow, much like moths to a flame. All while others avoid it like the plague.

This explanation might seem crude. Rudimentary even. But it incorporates the great American X-factor: Mobility. It explains the rush of people heading to the big city to make their fortune. And it defines the counter-rush of city-dwellers heading to the suburbs for simpler living.

Our relationship to power flows both ways.

This leads to another question: What exactly is power?

It seems like a simple query at first. And yet, answers are lacking.

For power is an abstract concept, devoid of visualization.

There is no universal symbol, such as a sunburst for light or a heart for love. There are just the cultural vessels we have defined — in particular, wealth and fame.

Each of these vessels seem to fit the mold at first. Those who accumulate vast sums of money have plenty of options on how to spend it. Those bestowed with fame can bend fawning followers to their will.

And yet, one of them has proven far more corrosive than the other.

Greed is good.

This is the most iconic line from the 1987 movie Wall Street.

The film — and its antihero, Gordon Gecko — serves as a stark portrait of the ills of capitalism, wealth and fortune.

The implication is straightforward. Those who accumulate money will seek to double their returns at all costs, transforming from full-fledged members of society into sociopaths.

Sometimes, this portrait comes to life in horrifying detail. But not always.

There are more than 600 billionaires in the United States. Some of these names you know. But a bunch of others you probably don’t.

Why is that?

Could it be that our brains can only process so much information at once? Maybe.

But I think there’s more to it than that.

You see, some brash billionaires do put their name out there, letting their wallet or their ambitions inflate their ego. But many others resist such temptation. They try and live as anonymously as those with fewer commas on their balance sheets.

Sure, their clothes might be fancier than ours. And they might never know the struggle of living paycheck to paycheck. But they are far from the embodiment of Gordon Gecko.

In their case, greed is not good. In fact, greed is not part of the equation.

Fortune might not change everyone it touches.

But fame? Fame most certainly will.

We can lurk in the shadows, even with loads of cash in the bank. But once everyone knows our name, our lives are destined to profoundly change.

For fame is elusive. It can overtake us in an instant. But it doesn’t last for long.

The easy in, easy out nature of notoriety comes from our fragile attention spans. Humans are stimulated by novelty, and we seek it at every turn. Something that captivated us yesterday thoroughly bores us today.

These forces are wonderful news for those seeking to have their name in lights. They can help accelerate the rise to notoriety.

But once those people reach the pinnacle of fame, they’ll find those same forces working against them. The tide is rolling in. And the next big thing is charging full speed at them, ready to bury them alive.

No one who’s achieved such glamour wants to feel the humility of irrelevance. No one in this spot wants to see their star burn out.

And so, the newly-gilded fame-erati do what they can to hang on to their notoriety. They become belligerent. They pander. They toss aside rules of decorum.

And in the process, they lose every sense of who they were before the bright lights found them. They find themselves corrupted to the core.

One can still find balance when bestowed with great wealth. But fame? There is no redemption for fame.

I don’t aspire for wealth or fame.

Having enough to get by is sufficient for me. The virtues I espouse and the company I keep matter far more than any power or influence I might attain.

Yet, I feel confident that if I were to come into wealth, I would handle it appropriately. I would remain true to myself and to my values. I wouldn’t let my new net worth change my outlook.

Wealth isn’t enough to corrode the life I’ve built. But fame most certainly is.

I don’t feel like I’m all that different from others in this sense. I feel that most of us could take the mantle of fortune without evolving into monsters.

So, it’s time to dismantle the myth tethering power and corruption.

Notoriety might be doomed to the status of poison pill. But prosperity needn’t suffer the same fate.

Furry Home Companions

Her name was Zephyr.

She had a disarmingly friendly face, and she was covered in thick grey fur. She loved wagging her tail and laying on the linoleum kitchen floor.

She had a home. Our home.

Zephyr was the family dog, half Bearded Collie and half Samoyed. She was the first pet I ever shared a house with.

OK, that wasn’t entirely true. There was a cat named Purrseus in our home as well. Zephyr thought Purrseus was her puppy. She would endearingly cover him with dog slime, leaving the poor cat looking miserable time and again.

But while Purrseus merely tolerated my presence, Zephyr enjoyed it. She remained calm, even as she found herself in the crosshairs of my youthful energy. She never snapped at me, even when I would yank on her fur as a small child.

Later on, when my sister was a toddler, she would ride on Zephyr’s back, like a horse. This wasn’t any dog’s idea of fun, but Zephyr was a good sport nonetheless.

As winter approached, Zephyr was in her element. As my sister and I would make snowmen in the backyard, the dog would gleefully bound through the snow around us.

It wasn’t all rosy. Zephyr would occasionally get herself into trouble, getting sprayed by a skunk or bitten by an unruly German Shepherd. When visitors came through the front door, she would nearly bowl them over with excitement.

But generally, my memories of Zephyr give me the warm fuzzies. Right up until the end.

The end was on a warm summer day. My grandfather was at the house, watching my sister and me while my parents were out and about. He could tell that something was wrong when Zephyr didn’t greet him with enthusiasm like she normally did.

We found her in a corner of the living room. Her nose was warm and she was breathing heavily.

We rushed Zephyr to the animal hospital, where the veterinarians diagnosed her with an enlarged heart. She never made it home.

I was 9 years old at the time, and it was the first time I’d experienced loss. Seeing the struggle my sister and I were going through, my parents held a funeral for Zephyr in our backyard. We scattered her ashes amongst the flowerbeds. My grandfather even wrote a eulogy for our beloved pet.

Zephyr was gone. But she was certainly not forgotten.

The next several months were surreal.

When we opened the front door, no one came to greet us. The leash and the food bowl were stowed away. And my grandparents didn’t stay at the house to dog sit when we went out of town.

It all seemed odd. And yet, I wasn’t quite ready to fill the void.

Getting another pet seemed out of the question to me. It would be a sign that our dearly departed Bearded Collie/Samoyed mix wasn’t so special after all.

But I was one of four people in my household. And the other three couldn’t bear the sight of a quiet home.

So, we watched the Westminster Dog Show and quickly found ourselves enamored with Border Collies. We connected with a rescue organization and adopted Nellie.

Nellie was about a year old when we brought her home. But that first year of her life had been traumatic. She had been abused and abandoned. Animal services workers eventually found her wandering the streets near the airport.

She was still pretty traumatized in those first weeks with us. Border collies are normally an energetic breed. But Nellie would cower under the kitchen table whenever visitors came by. And we had to be extra vigilant when a door was open, in case she made a run for it.

But gradually, Nellie emerged from her shell. She started herding my sister around the yard by nipping at her heels. And it wasn’t long before Nellie was barking at cats, chasing squirrels and playing with tennis balls.

Nellie was a willful dog, and that sometimes rubbed me the wrong way. I was approaching adolescence, and I didn’t have the skills to properly engage with her. I yelled at that dog more times than she deserved — so much so that she soon avoided me.

But I learned the error of my ways and started treating Nellie better. I prepared her food and gave her far more kindness and attention.

Not long after my turnabout, I went off to college. But when I returned for holidays and semester breaks — Nellie was there to greet me. And that filled my heart.

I had come full circle.

Eventually, my college days wound down. When I graduated without a job offer in the wings, I moved back to my childhood home for a bit. My parents and sister went on vacation to Europe, and I was tasked with watching the dog.

For the next several weeks, my routine was simple. Wake up, fill Nellie’s food and water bowls, take her for a walk and apply for news jobs in faraway cities.

It was a stressful time. But the dog made good company.

And yet, I could tell something was different. Nellie moved slower than usual. And sometimes she would struggle to jump onto my parents’ bed, where she slept in their absence.

Nellie didn’t have all that long left. And I knew it.

I ultimately did accept a job offer during that time. And once my parents returned, I prepared to move to Texas to start my new life.

On the day I left town, I spent some extra time saying goodbye to Nellie. For I was certain I wouldn’t see her again.

No, my family pleaded. Don’t say that!

But it was true.

By the time I returned to visit a year later, Nellie was gone.

After Nellie passed, I wondered if things would be different for our family.

I was living thousands of miles away, and my sister was off in college. My parents had a busy lifestyle, and I figured they might just keep the house to themselves for a while.

Boy, was I wrong.

About a year after Nellie passed, my parents brought home a puppy named Juno. An Irish Jack Russell terrier, Juno’s far smaller than the family’s two previous dogs. And from the start, she was energetic, excitable and photogenic.

Juno is the first of the family’s dogs who wasn’t also my pet. So it was hard for me to miss some major changes in my parents’ behavior.

For one thing, they made a concerted effort to make sure the puppy could travel. My grandparents were getting older, and my parents didn’t want to hire a pet sitter every time they left town. The dog would have to be mobile.

But beyond the logistics, something else seemed out of sorts. Instead of asserting a sense of reserved affection, my parents seemed to treat Juno like a small child. They spoke to her in voices I hadn’t heard since my sister was young. They put toys and dog beds in every room. And they sent me dozens of puppy pictures.

I couldn’t quite figure out why my parents were acting this way. Was this a reversion to earlier years in the house, as they stared down life as empty nesters? Were they longing for grandchildren and doting on the dog as a distraction? Had Juno’s cuteness simply disarmed them, wiping away two decades of dog ownership habits?

From afar, I oscillated between these three theories, never quite sure which one fit best. But before I could solve the puzzle, everything changed.

About four years after adopting Juno, my parents sold my childhood home. They, the dog, my sister and my grandmother moved into an apartment in the big city.

My parents were no longer empty nesters, and there were 100 different things to distract their attention from the dog.

And yet, they doted on Juno even more than before. They found creative ways to take her around town. And they planned dog-friendly excursions outside of the city.

By now, it was clear to me this behavior wasn’t a reaction. It was who my parents were. It was a side of them that had been there all along — but one that they hadn’t previously embraced.

And so, I let go of my discomfort. I embraced the stream of dog photos. I asked about Juno on our weekly phone calls. I went on late night walks with my father and her whenever I visited.

It took me a while. But I finally got it.

I don’t own any pets.

I’m too much of a neat freak to deal with pet hair. I don’t like picking up animal droppings. And I don’t want to have to go through the hassle of finding a sitter every time I leave town.

But growing up with furry home companions has left an indelible mark on my life. I’ve learned patience and practiced responsibility. I’ve found kinship and purpose. I’ve encountered the heights of joy and the depths of grief.

That is something truly special. But it needn’t be unique.

We can learn from the dogs and cats that are so prevalent in our lives. Whether we are taking care of our own pets or crossing paths with those of our neighbors, we can cherish that special bond between humans and animals. And we can heed the valuable life lessons such a connection brings.

I miss Zephyr and Nellie. And I miss Juno as well during my long stretches away from her. But I will always cherish my time with them, and its effect on me.

That is a gift without comparison.