I use this phrase often. Often inside my head, like a small mantra.

It’s one my therapist used in more than one session. “Millie,” she would say, “you need to develop the understanding that you do not need permission for a rich & vibrant life.”

Self-worth is hard.

It’s trauma, of course. Well, for me it is. A terrible childhood, things that I could only explain to a therapist, because they’re too terrible for an untrained person to hear. My unique little black dog. I get to pet and feed it, and in return it stays and grows with me. I cannot have a rich & vibrant life, because I have a dog to care for.

Don’t worry, things get dark around here sometimes, but we’re not about to lead Old Yeller off to a nice farm and never see him again. My black dog has had a lifetime of care, it is old and well fed. Because here is an admission: I love my black dog.

I made a festival that spanned a city. I have run marathons. I have made so much art. Written so many words. Got lost at a festival. Seen so many performances. Sat in awe at the work of the long dead, and the still living. Joined friends for weddings. Joined others for divorce. Did both myself. Cried over at least one boy. Started my own business. Watched my children fall, and get back up again, and still ask for biscuit money. Watched them soar and cried with joy. Stood on the biggest stage in my industry and bombed. Hosted radio. Hosted dinner parties. Worked retail. Left too early. Got bad tattoos. Spent the most intimate moments in crowded rooms. Shared the joy of literature, even if the film version was terrible. Cried over a girl, or two, or four. Got found at a festival. Took unnecessary road trips, and laughed too hard at jokes that only made sense inside the car. Played games, actual games, not mind games. Also played some mind games, with varying success. Stayed too long. Made stories, and rolled dice to see where they went. Buried my mother. Made more art. Made love, some of it at least as satisfying as making art. Had sex, and yes, there is a difference. Showered in starlight. Screamed at the moon. Closed my business. Watched the sun rise over Tokyo. Played with fire in Wellington. Made crow friends in the Grand Canyon. Got drunk in Prague. Got sober in 2025. Told people I loved them and meant it with all my heart. Got good tattoos. Told people I loved them but only meant it with all my lust. Made more art, wrote more words. I am living a Rich & Vibrant life.

And my dog was with me through all of it. Only sometimes, instead of realising I am actually living, I look back at my black dog and feel guilty. Because, in a strange way, I owe the dog my life. And I can’t put aside how much care the dog still needs. Sometimes, caring for it makes my Rich & Vibrant life so hard to see.

It is, of course, not a dog. It’s cPTSD.

I learnt to recognise the smallest change in someone’s tone of voice. To notice the details in a room, who was there, where they were standing, whether the atmosphere had shifted. To hear the things people weren’t saying. I learnt to sleep lightly, to wake at the smallest disturbance. To anticipate what might happen next, and prepare for it before anyone else had even noticed something was wrong. All this and more. You’re not trained to know, you see. So I’ll keep my secrets.

I learnt to be afraid. Not that trite “be afraid and do it anyway” afraid. I learnt to be afraid, and the dog and I were very good at it.

And these things kept me safe. They really did. They weren’t irrational responses to the world I was living in. They were adaptations to it. But the world changed, and those adaptations came with me. They, however, hadn’t learnt to adapt.

Now I can hear danger in a perfectly ordinary conversation. I can notice a change in someone’s expression and spend hours wondering what it means. I can wake in the night with my heart racing, or find myself having a panic attack when nothing immediately dangerous is happening.

My dog is very good at its job. But it is old, and it is hard to teach an old dog new tricks. So I need to give it grace when it barks at the postman.

As I sit here, eating a second helping of homemade pie, packed in the good Tupperware so I’d have to go back to return it, telling a group chat about my excellent day, and listening to some fantastic music recommended to me by a boy, I hear my therapist again.

“You need to develop the understanding that you do not need permission for a rich & vibrant life…”

And my dog speaks up. Of course it speaks and I understand. It’s my dog.

My dog completes the sentence…

“Because we’ve made a life that’s exactly that.”