An Update: Grief & Gratitude, Nervous Systems, Letting Go — and a New Script

An Update: Grief & Gratitude, Nervous Systems, Letting Go — and a New Script

I watched a video this morning — one I’d shared eight days ago in the GoFundMe updates, just after we landed in Phoenix.

Sitting here, sipping tea. That familiar lump in my throat. Tears streaming down my face.

I won’t be sharing the video on social media; I’ll leave it in the GoFundMe updates.

But the contrast between the woman in that video and the woman in this photo of Ava and me from just a year ago — when she and the puppies first came to us — is astounding.

One is hopeful. Grounded. Full.

The other is undone. Overwhelmed. Worn thin.

That contrast tells the story better than any explanation ever could.

This was one of the greatest fights of my life — the fight for them.
And now… the fight for me and my recovery.

(Referenced pictures here: https://www.facebook.com/KimberlyArtley1/posts/pfbid035xMbUnoyS5FUAbEfDGPDRES4Zrjdz43RGjYTf1bzdAagXvntU5yenZSqACPPodu6l )

The sacrifice this rescue required was immense. Financially. Physically. Emotionally. Neurologically. It was intense then — and it’s still quite intense now.

I need to say this out loud, even if it’s uncomfortable.

I’m really struggling with letting go.

I understand the idea of “no news is good news.”

I know people are busy.

I know it’s only been a week.

I know everyone is carrying their own responsibilities, pressures, and lives.

And still… questions and reach-outs often go unanswered.

When you invest all you are and all you have — your finances, your time, your attention — when your community invests alongside you, too — and it costs you your body, your nervous system, your heart, your life — being forced to turn it over makes the not-knowing excruciating.

What’s hardest isn’t even the lack of updates.

It’s the lack of response.

Even a simple “no updates yet” would matter. Because regardless of time, I will always care.

This family — these dogs — I gave everything I was and am to.

And when there’s silence, it can feel like that depth of care isn’t fully understood. Or worse, that it’s invisible.

This is why I struggled so very hard to come to the decision to release them.

Because once you do, you learn something difficult: most people are focused on their own lives.

And that’s human.

I understand that.

But it also means they may never fully grasp the level of vigilance, attunement, and responsibility that came before — the way loving these dogs wasn’t something I could compartmentalize. It was a full-body, full-life commitment.

This is one of the reasons I wanted to see this all the way through myself — to remain present, responsive, and attuned until the very end. To ensure they found others ready and willing to do the same.

But I couldn’t do that and choose my family, my home, my health, and my life. At some point, something had to give.

This photo of Ava and me is from the beginning — when she first came to us and was nursing her babies. I spent so much time in there with all of them.

Our bond was beautiful. Loving. Trusting. Respectful. Deep. We were highly, highly attuned to one another.

And I know — in my bones — that the level of stress I was under toward the end impacted her. It impacted all of them. And that knowing hurts in a way I don’t have words for.

At the same time, I also know this to be true:

They all needed to be separated.

They needed their own spaces.

They needed to go on and live their own individual lives.

Healing is needed — for them, and for me.

I also want to share an observation from these photos —

While Ava looked more relaxed her first day in foster, she looks more stressed about a week in (rigidity and tension in her body language, dilated pupils, drooling).

Winnie and Cowboy showed the opposite pattern — more stress upon intake, followed by visible softening and relaxation as the days have gone on.

This doesn’t mean anyone is “doing better” or “doing worse.”

Nervous systems don’t all respond on the same timeline.

Ava is highly resilient. Tough as nails. She takes change like a champ. And for dogs like her, this pattern actually makes sense.

Highly adaptive dogs often mobilize well at first — they cope, they function, they handle the transition — and then show stress later, once they feel safe enough to stop holding it together and start processing.

Early calm doesn’t always mean fully settled.

Later stress doesn’t mean failure.

It often means: “I’m safe enough now to feel this.”

Winnie and Cowboy process more externally. Their bodies showed stress first, then softened as routine and predictability set in.

Ava processes more internally. Her nervous system held steady through the initial change and is now doing the deeper work of decompression.

Different dogs.

Different nervous systems.

Different perceptions.

Different timelines.

And behavior — always — is information.

Even the backyard here tells this story. What was once lush and green was worn down to dirt over the past year. Barren.
Exhausted by too much, for too long.

And now… small green sprouts are beginning to appear. Quiet signs of recovery. Of life returning.

There’s something else that’s been heavy on my heart.

I offered help to the fosters and the rescue. Repeatedly.

No one has taken me up on it.

Free access to my masterclasses and courses — including content on influential behavioral ingredients not typically taught in the traditional dog-training world.

Direct access to me.

A free digital copy of the new book.

It’s hard not to take that personally.

But just because I wasn’t able to regulate at the end — just because my nervous system was overwhelmed — does not mean I don’t know what I’m talking about.

There is a difference between capacity and capability.

I have the knowledge.

The skill.

The experience.

I know what they needed. I know what they still need.

What I didn’t have was the capacity to provide it — not without losing my life, my relationships, my home, and my own safety in the process.

Without nervous system regulation — and without stabilizing support and full support in the mission — knowledge and skill cannot be effectively applied.

This is true for dogs.

It’s true for humans.

And it was painfully true for me at the end.

This wasn’t about capability.

It was about capacity.

This required more support than I had — and more capacity than was available.

And there were a lot of ingredients working against us — realities that compounded over time, both systemically and internally.

That reality breaks my heart.

There’s another layer of grief here — one that’s quieter, but very real.

Part of releasing them has meant releasing control over the kind of daily support their bodies, hearts, and nervous systems receive.

Letting go of the standards of care I lived by and advocated for — not because others don’t care, but because most systems are built around what’s fast, affordable, and considered “good enough.”

Clean, biologically appropriate nourishment.

Supporting the body from the inside out.

Titer testing in lieu of routine re-vaccination.

Listening to what the nervous system and immune system are actually communicating.

These choices aren’t the norm in the U.S. — and over-vaccination, poor nutrition, and reactive “sick care” approaches are very real issues in our pet world.

Humans get choice. Dogs don’t.

Releasing them has meant accepting that they may not receive the kind of whole-body, whole-being support they’ve known — not because anyone intends harm, but because the system itself isn’t designed for that level of nuance, care, and prevention.

That acceptance has been its own form of grief.

I’m a quality-of-life person. Always have been. I believe nourishment matters. Regulation matters. Prevention matters.

And stepping away from being able to advocate for that directly has been one of the hardest parts of all of this.

I was in no condition to do a cross-country road trip safely. The way things unfolded was, in many ways, a Godwink — an answer to prayers. Divine Intervention. Protection for all of us.

I don’t miss that. I see it clearly. I honor it.

And still… accepting that gift required something from me.

It required letting go in a way I was both ready and not ready for.

It required releasing not just the dogs, but my voice, my involvement, and my stewardship — at a time when love and care were still driving every instinct in me.

That grief has been harder than I expected.

It would be easier to release if the level of care I poured in was still being honored — if the depth of my love and responsibility was acknowledged and recognized, rather than treated as something to be shut out once the handoff was complete.

I would never cut someone out when love and care were the driving force and the intention behind their involvement.

Accepting that others may choose differently — even while I remain grateful — has been one of the quietest, hardest parts of this entire experience.

Gratitude and grief can coexist.

Grace can still hurt.

And miracles don’t always arrive without cost.

What hurts isn’t that I let go — it’s that I HAD to, while still caring just as much.

I didn’t just release dogs from my care. I released stewardship. Agency. The ability to protect through presence. And for someone whose love shows up as responsibility, attunement, and follow-through, that loss cuts deep.

I’m holding gratitude and grief at the same time.

Relief and heartbreak.

Trust and fear.

I can know I did the right thing and still wish I could reach in and steady things.

This pain doesn’t mean the choice was wrong.

It means the bond was real.

And it means my care didn’t disappear just because my role changed.

This sacrifice I made for them wasn’t just me choosing myself.

It was also me choosing them.

Because my greatest, sincerest hope is that they go on to live happy, wonder-filled, love-filled lives — full of adventure.

Lives with people willing to go the distance for them the way I did. People who honor responsibility and commit to their commitments.

I did everything I could.

And everything I was able.

I know this was needed.

For all of us.

I’m turning this entire ordeal into a script — and likely into a book as well. Since I’ve been on couch arrest, healing from the deep gashes in my leg, I’ve been writing steadily, and I’m nearly finished with the script.

This feels like the natural next container for a story this big.
I didn’t just live an ordeal.

I lived an arc.

Steve and I both did.

What I’ve been describing all along — the timing, the convergence, the sacrifice, the nervous-system cost, the grace notes, the Godwinks, the letting go — that isn’t just a rescue story. It’s a human story, with dogs as sacred mirrors.

That’s why people keep saying, “You should turn this into a Hallmark movie.”

They’re not responding to sentimentality.

They’re responding to structure.

And I’m trusting — even on the hard days — that healing is still unfolding, whether I can see it or not.