Letting the Dog Set the Pace
One of my favorite parts of flying home is getting to spend time with our family dog, Sawyer.
She’s a Golden Retriever, and we’ve been bonded since she was a puppy. She remembers without effort; she recognizes me as soon as I arrive, even after months apart.
When the leash comes out, Sawyer starts yapping. She knows exactly what the leash means, and she doesn’t wait for further instruction.
stepping into her world
This year, we drove to a park with long trails and open space. Winter-bare trees, damp earth, the low murmur of people moving through their own routines.
At the trailhead, I clipped on her leash. Sawyer surged forward immediately, nose low, body alert, already engaged with a world I hadn’t yet entered.
Her pace was faster than mine.
the habit of leading
Normally, I would correct that. Tighten the leash. Establish rhythm. Move efficiently toward somewhere else.
Instead, I followed.
Every time Sawyer stopped to sniff — the base of a tree, a stretch of grass, a place where another dog had passed — I stopped too. I noticed how long she stayed. How complete her attention was. How unconcerned she seemed with forward motion.
At forks in the trail, I let her choose. There was no destination to justify a better option. Just interest.
time without urgency
Walking this way revealed something subtle and unsettling: how deeply ingrained my impulse to direct really is.
Not because direction was needed — but because it felt familiar.
Sawyer wasn’t meandering. She was responding. To scent, sound, movement, curiosity. Her sense of time was not segmented into before and after. It was continuous.
inhabiting the moment
Following her, I began to feel the difference between moving through space and inhabiting it.
I noticed things I usually pass by — not because I’m careless, but because I’m oriented elsewhere. Toward efficiency. Completion. The next moment.
The walk became slower. Not dramatically — just enough to feel strange.
relinquishing the role
What surprised me most wasn’t how peaceful it felt, but how unfamiliar it was to not be deciding.
We often talk about slowing down as something we do intentionally. As a practice. As a choice.
But this felt different.
It felt like stepping out of a role I rarely question — the one who leads, sets pace, moves things along.
nothing to accomplish
The walk ended without ceremony. Sawyer turned back when she seemed ready. I didn’t check the time. Nothing was accomplished.
And yet, something had shifted.
Not insight exactly.
More like a loosening.
A reminder that presence sometimes arrives when we stop insisting on being the one in charge.
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