A Kiss Before Dinner: Finding Good After Hard Years

I'll be honest: it's harder for me to remember the good moments than the bad ones. The hard years left deep marks, and they are loud. The good things come quietly. They don't announce themselves. You almost have to go looking for them.

But there is one I never have to look for. It happens every single day.

Tobby will not eat until he gets a kiss on the forehead.

I put his bowl down, and he sits. He doesn't touch it. He just waits, looking up at me with those patient, devoted eyes, as if the food doesn't count yet. As if something important is missing. And it is. Only after I bend down and kiss the top of his head does he finally turn to his bowl.

He is five and a half years old now. We've done this more times than I could count. And still, every time, it touches me.

I think about what that little ritual meant in the darkest days. Some mornings, I didn't feel like I had anything to give anyone. But I could give him that. One kiss. And he would take it as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Maybe that's what small victories really are. Not grand moments you remember forever, but tiny rituals that keep you connected to the ones who need you, even on the days you can't feel much of anything. They hold you in place until you're ready to move again.

So now, when I struggle to remember the good, I start here. With a sitting dog, a full bowl, and a kiss that he will always, always wait for.

What small ritual quietly holds your days together?

Would you like to share your answer?

I read every answer myself. It stays private unless you say otherwise.

If you are in crisis or thinking about harming yourself, please reach out to local emergency services or a crisis line in your country right now. You deserve immediate support.

Curious about his bowl? Read Slow Down, Big Boy in Tobby's Corner.

With love, and a wet nose from Tobby

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