There is no finish line

I want to be done so I can be loved. Maybe the ultimate checklist is separating the two.

Written on February 7th in late-afternoon shade at Everglades National Park, my keyboard clicks barely audible above the rhythm of pileated woodpeckers.

Reading Maybe You Should Talk to Someone makes me realize (not for the first time, but I’m terrible at internalizing this morsel) the obvious: There is no finish line. There will never be a finish line. No streamers, no cheers, no clear-cut you did it, well done (note the past tense) because until I die, I will still be doing.

Sean and I used to talk about “moving the goalposts” in regards to Scout’s fear reactivity. Those first months after I realized the extent of her behavioral problems, I told every trainer we consulted with that I just wanted to take her for a walk—a boring neighborhood walk—without her freaking out and embarrassing me.

Eventually we could go on walks. They weren’t seamless, but they were possible, and I yearned for more possibilities. Now I want to go on busier walks, longer hikes. Now I want to sit at a brewery, a coffee shop, the restaurant near our apartment complex. Now I want to go on outings with other dogs. Now I want trick titles. A Canine Good Citizen certificate. Engaged games of tug in distracting environments. Twenty thousand Instagram followers. A more polished narrative.

Mostly, what I wanted with Scout was the same thing I want in all areas of my life: to be seen. Not just observed, but seen, and specifically seen as successful. Each time we made progress, the line for “success” moved with us because there was always someone ahead doing it better—and our past selves fell further behind, failing to remind me just how far we’d come unless I actually sat down, took out the binoculars (read: scrolled my camera roll or Instagram memories), and tracked their blurred forms.