AM I WRONG FOR WISHING I DIDN’T HAVE TO BE THE STRONG ONE—EVEN FOR HIM?

Today is Rio’s ampuversary—three years since they removed his front leg and said he likely wouldn’t live another six months. I signed off on a surgery I couldn’t afford, swiped my credit card one last time, and promised him he wasn’t done yet.

And he wasn’t. He’s still here—three-legged, but full of life, barking at squirrels with that crooked grin.

This morning, I made him a sign: “BUTT KICKIN’ CANCER WARRIOR.” The internet loved it. But no one saw me on the kitchen floor earlier—dishes piled up, unpaid bills, and an email about a final job interview I couldn’t attend because Rio had a critical vet appointment. No reschedules. I chose Rio.

The recruiter replied: “We need someone who can prioritize the role.” I broke down. At the vet’s, we waited. Then—“No sign of recurrence,” said Dr. Patel. Relief. But there were liver test abnormalities. More monitoring. More stress.

Back home, Rio curled beside me. Later, I got a message from a stranger—Lila—who saw my post and offered to connect me with someone in marketing. Hesitant but hopeful, I replied.

Two weeks later, I was offered a remote, flexible job with BrightSpark Media. Enough to pay off debt. Enough to breathe.

Six months on, life is different. I work from home. Rio naps beside me. At the park, I met Lila in person. She’d lost her dog the year before—said my story inspired her to help.

That night, I realized: strength isn’t about never breaking—it’s about rising after each fall. Sometimes, it means asking for help.

If this story resonates with you, share it. We’re never truly alone.