I wasn’t supposed to be on that train. That morning, I’d packed a small bag without a plan — just the need to move, to let motion replace the stillness that had settled inside me. As the train rumbled forward, I sank into my seat, letting the rhythm of the tracks quiet the noise of everything I’d been holding onto.
Across from me sat a golden retriever, calm and poised beside his owner. His eyes met mine — not curious, but kind, the kind of gaze that silently says, You’re going to be okay. Moments later, he stood, walked over, and gently rested his head on my knee. The gesture was simple, but something inside me softened. It felt like permission to breathe again.
I found myself whispering to him — words I hadn’t been able to say to anyone else. I spoke about loss, about holding on too tightly, about learning when to let go. He didn’t move or look away; he just listened. In that quiet space, between the hum of the train and his steady presence, I realized I wasn’t running anymore — I was healing.
When the train stopped, his owner smiled and said softly, “He’s a therapy dog. He always finds the person who needs him.” I smiled back through grateful tears. As I stepped onto the platform, I felt lighter — as though that golden retriever had carried away a piece of my pain. Sometimes, healing doesn’t come from where we expect it. Sometimes, it finds us in the eyes of a kind dog on a train going somewhere new.