One of my favorite cowboy romances of all time (do NOT ask me what it’s called unless you like spicy books 🙃 not tryna embarrass both of us) has an interesting take on the relationship between love and hardiness. 

Throughout the book, the female main character named Amanda takes bold steps in pursuit of the man she wants. I’m talking bold, bold. It’s insanely difficult for me to make myself vulnerable and put my heart out there, so I love reading about how Amanda makes such brave choices.

Of course, it’s not easy to live that way. At one point in the story when the going gets tough, Amanda remembers a lesson her mother Ellie taught her when she was young: 

“A soft heart is only going to hurt you, Ellie had told ten-year-old Amanda when she’d found her sobbing over the sale of a gelding. You have to love hard, Amanda. You have to expect it will hurt and let yourself love anyway. Or you’ll never survive.” 

This idea—that a scarred and toughened heart might actually be the one most equipped to give love—threw me when I first read it. In our culture, we associate hard hearts with guardedness and walls, and soft hearts with kindness and intimacy. But I saw the truth of this principle for myself this summer. 

My dog Gracie has been a blessing and companion to me from the first day that I met her. I’d been wishing on stars and praying for a puppy since I was a little girl—and my wish was granted my freshman year of high school.

She had these big beseeching eyes that she was known to turn on someone when she wanted a bite of whatever they had in their hand. Or that ball that they’d been throwing around. Or to cuddle up with them on that soft couch they were sitting on.

She was pretty expressive for a dog. We used to laugh at how she tried to talk to us using all the tools she had at her disposal. 

Make no mistake, though. She was no walk in the park. As a rescue dog, she came with plenty of baggage that we were still unpacking ten years later. She hated it when people surprised her, at the front door or on walks, and had the most piercing bark that she’d let loose whenever she didn’t feel safe. She had an innate distrust of men. And she was guilty of silently loosing the most noxious farts right in front of you, without giving you any time to run away. 

While I knew she had faults, I could never seem to look at her without seeing all the good she brought into the world. She really, understandably, unnerved and irritated a lot of people. But I couldn’t shake my inner conviction that the core of her little self was very, very lovable. And made just for me. 

I knew she needed me, and there were many, many times when I needed her. When my house was full up on people and feelings and problems, sometimes the only person available to listen wasn’t a person at all. It was my dog. She stood by me so steadfastly that I often tripped over her. She had a habit of following me from room to room and setting up camp right under my feet, no matter how long I planned to stay there. 

So we stuck together. I talked to her like she was a person, and in return, I felt attuned to her—what she needed, what might be causing her pain or stress, and what she was capable of learning or doing. I took copious notes from a dog trainer, then spent hours and hours training her in my basement, backyard, and the backstreets of my neighborhood. I used her like a vacuum and fed her all my leftover scraps. We went on hikes and long runs together (she was with me when I finished my first and only 10k, the longest distance I’ve ever run to date).

I cried when I moved out of my house and, without an ounce of irony, ceremoniously transferred her safekeeping into Eva’s hands so someone would make her wellbeing a priority while I was gone (Thanks, Eva. All the time you invested in her gave me the piece of mind I needed to leave home). 

When I finally met someone I deemed worthy to bring home, his relationship with Gracie showed me just how deeply his heart was capable of loving. He endeared himself to my man-hating dog within an hour of meeting her (using some kind of dog massage? He is a marvel).

He chose to forgo his bed so he could sleep on the floor and cuddle Gracie, whose long nails threatened to puncture the air mattress. He came with me to take her to the vet (a place we DREADED taking her to, since her barks echoed off the walls and hard floor, multiplying our embarrassment times 1000). And he promised me that one day, when we could make it into an apartment that allowed it, we’d steal Gracie away to live with us. 

Last year, he even gifted me the most perfect birthday gift by taking Gracie and I for a walk on Tubbs Hill (a very public hiking spot). If you remember my above note about how much Gracie hated to be surprised, this was a pretty risky gamble. But Noah calmed me down when Gracie spent the first 20 minutes barking like a fiend. Then, he proceeded to walk her like a pro past more people and dogs then I think she’s ever encountered at one time. To this day, I’ve never ever seen her walk as well as she did when they were together. 

Noah always believed in her, and she bloomed in his care. Watching him take on the love I had for this troublesome dog was like peering straight into the core of his steady, kind, and gentle heart. 

Well, when this June rolled around it became clear that Gracie, though spry as ever at heart, wasn’t a little puppy anymore. Not by a long shot. Her health went downhill, fast, and we knew it was her time to go. 

The arrangements were quickly made, but I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know how to reconcile the plans I’d made for the two of us this summer with the reality that we only had a few more days to spend together. I drove to my mom’s house to be with Gracie as often as I could, then cried and cried. 

I struggled to picture the day we’d have to say goodbye. I’d never put a pet down before and couldn’t imagine myself going to the vet with Gracie on that last day knowing what was going to happen, then, just…walking out without her. 

But I couldn’t picture myself being anywhere else. After spending so much time together glued at the hip, the thought of missing her last few moments for my own benefit felt selfish. I wanted her to feel as safe and loved in those last few moments as possible. In my mind, it was only natural that I should be there. 

Noah and Mom were not so sure. Knowing how much I loved her, they worried that seeing Gracie in that moment might be too much for me to handle. They each offered to go to Gracie’s appointment on my behalf to represent me and carry out my wishes so I could stay home. 

Honestly, hearing the two people I trust the most share their concerns for me gave me pause. They both know me inside and out, so I reconsidered my reasoning and inner resolve carefully. Were they right? Would going to that appointment somehow crack something in me? 

I prayed about this for a few days. Then, as I was out on a walk I remembered Amanda from my book. Her mother’s wisdom, which guided her throughout her journey, was brought to my mind. 

“A soft heart is only going to hurt you, Ellie had told ten-year-old Amanda when she’d found her sobbing over the sale of a gelding. You have to love hard, Amanda. You have to expect it will hurt and let yourself love anyway. Or you’ll never survive.” 

And that was my answer. 

I had been afraid to spend those last moments with Gracie for fear that my love for her would overpower me when she passed. That’s how our society views love: as this force that takes us over, overriding our ordinary routines, judgment, and fortunes to lead us to our highest highs and our lowest lows. 

But the truth might be a bit more complicated than that. 

In my opinion, the way that we experience love is decided by who we are and the choices we make. Love shines a spotlight on us—our values, strengths, fears, weaknesses, and core beliefs—and presents us with a million opportunities to become better versions of ourselves. That process can be grueling, exalting, devastating, and transformative. But we are in the driver’s seat every step of the way and can choose the path we’d like to take. 

It takes grit to make it to your final destination, and we need “hard” hearts to survive the journey. Tough hearts are like calluses. They’re built by accepting that love will invite both joy and despair into our lives, and choosing to keep ourselves off the sidelines anyway, come what may. 

Over time, the hearts that choose to engage accumulate the weight of a million aches, pains, and lessons. But what’s beautiful is that just as our calluses allow us to accomplish more than we ever could with soft hands or feet, choosing to rise to the challenge expands our capacity to give, feel, and receive love. 

Some of my biggest heroes have chosen to respond to the heartbreaks of their lives by continually opening themselves to love. These are people with battle-toughened and grizzly old hearts that they are not afraid to break, because they believe that more joy is coming. I can’t imagine anything braver.

I think it’s safe to say that I have a pretty soft heart, but I’m working on it. Over the past ten years, I’d had my fair share of practice accepting the good with the bad in my experiences with Gracie. So I decided to cowboy up and do the same thing, one last time. And I went to the vet that day. 

I’m so glad I did. It was so meaningful for me to be there for my friend in the last moments of her life and to see her mind and body finally find rest. And, in true Gracie fashion, she left the world the same way she lived in it: covered in snack crumbs from a bunch of treats she used her big brown eyes to beg like crazy for. In that way of hers, she gave me one last laugh together that still makes me smile, even now. 

And I have love to thank for that.