A Squirrel With Absolutely No Agenda
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There's a dog named Layla who traveled all the way from Georgia — the country — to get here.
She's ten months old. She made a long international flight. She arrived and we didn't even know yet that she was sick.
She was a puppy being a puppy — peeing, pooping, barking through the night. All of it. The full chaotic beautiful mess of a young dog finding her footing in a brand new world as she waits for her forever family.
And the moment I walked into the room, her whole rear end started shaking left and right with pure uncontainable joy.
Just because I was there.
I felt it immediately — a warmth that started in my heart and moved up into my higher heart, filling my chest with something I didn't even know I needed in that moment.
Adoration. Affection. Warmth.
No conditions attached.
She had every reason not to be joyful. She was sick, disoriented, exhausted, in a completely new place. And still — whole rear shaking, pure love, no conditions.
That's what animals do.
They don't wait until you've figured things out. They don't need you to be okay first. They don't check whether you've earned it.
They just walk in and fill you up.
And somehow in receiving that — in letting that warmth land in my chest before my mind could even process it — I was reminded of something I'd been forgetting in all the noise of daily life.
That being present in your body, even for just a moment, changes everything.
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Hey — Pay Attention
It's so easy to live in your head.
The to do lists. The plans. The strategizing. The managing of everything that needs to be managed. The noise of it all can make it genuinely hard to remember that you have a body, that you're breathing, that there's a whole world happening right in front of you that you're missing because you're too busy thinking about what comes next.
I was walking recently, deep in my head exactly like that.
And then out of nowhere a squirrel ran about two feet in front of me, stopped dead in its tracks, looked me right in the eye and stayed there for a few seconds before running off.
Like it was saying — hey. Pay attention.
And just like that I was back.
Back in my body. Back in the moment. Back to noticing the air and the light and the fact that I was actually outside walking instead of just physically moving while mentally somewhere else entirely.
Animals do this without even trying.
They're not thinking about what comes next. They're not managing anything. They're just fully here — fully in their bodies, fully in the moment — and that presence reaches across whatever invisible wall we've built between our heads and the world and pulls us back through it.
No technique required. No reminder app. No gentle nudge from a friend.
Just a squirrel with absolutely no agenda standing two feet in front of you saying come back.
And the thing is — they're always saying it. We just have to be open enough to hear it.
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They Don't Try to Fix It
From childhood until now there have been moments of real despair — the kind that sits heavy and doesn't lift easily.
And in more than one of those moments a cat found me.
Didn't ask what was wrong. Didn't offer solutions. Didn't need me to explain or justify or put words to something that didn't have words yet.
Just climbed up, laid down and started purring.
Almost to say — here. Here are some purrs. You're not alone.
That's a kind of holding space that's hard to find anywhere else.
Because so much of human connection — as well intentioned as it is — comes with the impulse to fix. To solve. To say the right thing. To make it better.
Animals don't do that.
They just stay.
And sometimes staying is the only thing that actually helps.
There's something in the vibration of a cat's purr that the body responds to before the mind even registers it. Something in the weight of an animal resting against you that says without any words at all — I'm here and that's enough and so are you.
No solutions. No pressure. Just presence.
Which is maybe the most healing thing one living being can offer another.
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There Now You're My Human
The way animals communicate is something I find endlessly beautiful.
No words. No layers. No room for misinterpretation.
Just licks. Head butts. Rubbing against you to mingle scents.
There. Now you're my human.
In a world where words are so easily misunderstood — where perception and tone and context all pile on top of each other and meaning gets lost somewhere in the middle — animals just cut straight through all of it.
They communicate through need and affection. Not worthiness. Not performance. Not whether you deserve it today.
Just — I see you. I like your vibe. Here's a head butt to prove it.
There's an elegant simplicity to that in the middle of such a complex world.
No judgment about where you've been or what you've done or whether you're showing up the right way.
Just acceptance.
Hey. You're here. I'm here. That's enough.
And that kind of love — simple, direct, unconditional — has a way of reminding you what love is actually supposed to feel like. Not love as something earned or performed or carefully managed. Just love as a natural extension of one living being recognizing another.
Which brings me back to Layla.
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This Is What It's All For
Layla is still adjusting. Still being a puppy in all the chaotic beautiful ways that means.
And she still shakes her whole rear end when I walk into the room.
We didn't know she was sick when she arrived. We just knew she was keeping us up all night and loving us with everything she had anyway.
That image stays with me because it says something I think we all need to hear sometimes.
Underneath all the responsibilities and the planning and the strategizing and the noise. Underneath all of it.
This is what life is actually for.
Not just enduring. Not just managing. Not just getting through.
But feeling that warmth in your chest when something small and pure reminds you that love exists and it doesn't always need a reason.
I'm not saying let go of your responsibilities. I'm not saying stop planning or stop working toward what matters to you.
I'm saying it can't just be that.
Animals have been reminding me of this my whole life. In the squirrel that stops me mid spiral. In the cat that just shows up and purrs. In a sick ten month old dog who just flew across the world and still has more joy to give than most of us can access on our best days.
They don't know they're doing it.
They're just being exactly what they are.
And somehow that's always exactly what we needed.
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Author's Note
I wrote this one from a full heart.
And for everyone wondering — Layla is getting treated and has already started showing improvement.
If you have animals in your life — give them a little extra love today. And if you don't — notice the next one that crosses your path. The squirrel. The bird. The dog someone is walking past you on the street.
They might just be saying hey. Pay attention.
You're allowed to be here for this.
With love, — Hadija (HigherHeartWarriorChannel)
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