Before There Was Motivation

I woke up Monday already negotiating with the universe: “Maybe if I stay very still, no one will notice I’m alive.” Classic avoidance strategy. Meanwhile, my calendar had other ideas. So did my brain. And none of them involved going back to sleep.

I scrolled Instagram like it was my job—classic move when I’m trying to outrun a day I don’t want to face—and landed on a fitness post that said: “I get it. You’re not motivated. Do it anyway.”

Rude.

That’s when I thought of George—my dog, my best friend, my spiritual advisor in a fur coat. He’s been gone a while now, but his lessons? They still show up like divine Post-it notes when I need them most.

He had this way of launching himself off any surface—patio steps, curbs, even a slightly raised threshold—with a kind of theatrical leap. Sometimes he'd even twist in the air mid-jump, land with a smile (yes, a smile), and tear off into the day like it was the best day of his life. Because it was.

George didn’t wait to feel ready. He just was. Stretch. Sniff. Leap. Wag. Repeat.

I’ve Been Looking in the Wrong Direction

Have you ever noticed how a dog can achieve spiritual bliss because you opened a can of food?

Meanwhile, I’ve chased fulfillment through six-step morning routines, productivity hacks, and mindfulness apps I forgot I downloaded—none of which ever made me wag my metaphorical tail.

George didn’t need a vision board to find joy in a patch of sun. He didn’t wait for a big break to feel valuable. He just needed to be present—with me, with the breeze, with the moment. That was enough.

And honestly? It should be enough for me, too.

A System Built from Scratch (and Sniffing)

After George died, I realized he’d left me a kind of manual. Not just the one in Love, George, but the one he lived out loud, daily. His presence. His rhythm. His ability to find holiness in the ordinary.

This morning, I pulled out my journal and made two columns: things I’m doing… and what George would do instead.

That’s how George's Wisdom Rituals were born. Not rules. Not to-dos. Just small invitations to live with more heart and less hustle.

I didn’t need a full life overhaul. I needed a few reminders. And so, I started trying these on—not as obligations, but as gentle returns to myself.

1. Morning Stretch Ritual: Wake Up Like You Mean It

George never sprang out of bed. He’d rise slow, stretch long, like a yoga teacher leading a retreat in Big Sur. His whole body said: “Yes. I’m alive. Let’s go.”

Me? I usually jolt upright and inject stress into my bloodstream via email and news headlines before I’ve even peed.

This week, I tried something different: before anything else—before the phone, before the swirl—I sat up, raised my arms, and took a breath. I stretched. I whispered, “Brand new day. Brand new possibilities.”

It was small. But it helped.

2. Enthusiastic Greetings: Make a Big Deal of the People You Love

George could barely contain his joy when I walked back in the room—even if I’d just gone to get the mail. Full-body joy. Tail slaps. Grinning eyes.

Me? I sometimes greet people like they’re a pop-up ad I didn’t mean to open—especially the ones I see every day.

So I started changing that. I’ve been making a conscious effort to look up. Smile. Say, “Hi, I’m so glad you’re here.” Not in a performative way—but in a present way. I’m remembering that the people I love aren’t furniture.

And it’s shifting things.

3. Find a Patch of Grass

I have a photo of George, nose deep in a dandelion patch, sniffing each bloom like he was reading tiny novels. He adored being outside. Wind in his fur. Dirt under his feet.

Me? I “don’t have time.” I have emails and meetings and reasons to stay inside.

So I took ten minutes. No phone. No goal. Just walked barefoot on the lawn and looked up at the sky.

It was wonderful. And honestly? I think it changed the trajectory of my whole day.

4. Rest Without Guilt: Lie Down if You're Tired

When George was tired, he slept. No explanation. No apologies.

I used to white-knuckle my way through that mid-afternoon crash like I was auditioning for a Netflix doc on burnout. But this week, I closed my eyes for fifteen minutes. No scrolling. Just rest.

It wasn’t lazy. It was medicine. It felt like I was finally listening to myself again.

5. One Thing at a Time

George didn’t multitask. When he ate, he ate. When he napped, he napped. When he chased a squirrel, you better believe he gave it everything he had.

Me? I try to eat lunch, answer emails, and listen to a podcast at the same time. And surprise—I end up full but unsatisfied, informed but disconnected.

So I picked one daily moment and gave it my full attention. Just my coffee. Just one conversation. Just the water on my back in the shower.

It felt like my brain exhaled.

6. Forgiveness, the Dog Way

Once, I accidentally stepped on George’s tail and felt terrible. He forgave me before I even finished saying sorry.

No brooding. No resentment. No “let me bring this up in therapy ten years from now.”

This week, I realized the grudge I was holding was against myself. For being tired. For falling behind. For needing help.

I let a little bit of it go. Not all of it. But some. And even that helped.

7. Joy, Just Because

George had a tattered yellow ball that brought him more happiness than a hundred spa days ever brought me. He’d go wild for it—chomping, pouncing, chasing. Pure joy. Every. Single. Time.

I asked myself: What’s my version of the tennis ball?

Music. Specifically, dancing alone in the kitchen to ’80s pop like I’m at a gay wedding and I am the bride.

So I did that. Not to be productive. Not to “shift my energy.” Just because it felt good.

And it did.

The Real Lesson

I’ve spent so many years trying to optimize myself—be more focused, more efficient, more “on it.”

But George? He was never trying to be better. He just was.

Present. Loyal. Curious. Quick to forgive. Slow to judge. Willing to stretch into the light and try again.

He’s not here anymore, but his rituals are. His wisdom is. And when I practice these little moments—when I slow down, look up, breathe—I can almost hear him.

Not a bark. Not a command.

Just that quiet, steady message I’ve come to know as truth:

You don’t have to feel ready. You just have to show up.

And so I do.