For most of my life, the idea of having a dog was only a dream. Growing up in apartments where pets weren’t allowed, I longed for the companionship of a furry best friend.

When I started dog-sitting in the seventh grade, I thought it would fill that gap.

I didn’t realize was that caring for dogs would also teach me lessons about responsibility, time management and most importantly, boundaries.

Walking a stubborn husky named Rocco or managing Pepper—a fiery 20-pound dog who believes he’s a mastiff, gave me plenty of hands-on training.

Their quirks tested my patience, but they also pushed me to build structure into my days.

Suddenly, I had to wake up early, plan meals and medications and stay focused even when I felt tired or distracted.

Nothing tested my patience more than potty training puppies.

Cleaning up accidents became part of the routine, but it also forced me to slow down and accept that progress doesn’t happen overnight.

Puppies don’t learn on my timeline—they learn on theirs.

Waiting outside in the frigid cold or oppressive heat for a stubborn miniature golden doodle, Strawberry, to finally not use the fake grass and go potty in her designated area was rewarding.

They all remind me that consistency and remaining calm work better than frustration. In many ways, those moments mirrored my own life: when I rush or lose patience with myself, I make more mistakes.

When I stay steady, I see growth.

The dogs became accountability partners.

An adult once introduced me to the idea of having an “accountability buddy,” someone who helps keep you on track, to manage ADHD.

While most people look for that support from a friend, mine came on four legs.

The dogs didn’t let me snooze through the morning or skip responsibilities. Their needs kept me grounded when I couldn’t ground myself.

But the work wasn’t always rewarding.

Over Labor Day weekend, I agreed to watch seven dogs across multiple households.

Seven.

My days were sliced into 30-minute increments as I raced from house to house like a shuttle driver.

Instead of feeling accomplished, I ended the weekend drained and frustrated — angry at myself for saying “yes” to so much.

Money and people-pleasing were part of the problem.

When my first client booked me on Rover this summer – I was surprised because online all said that it would take a month for me to get any bookings on Rover so when I had my first client.

So when I finally did, I jumped at the opportunity and gave him a discounted rate as my first non-family client.

When his neighbor, living in a house as secure and as big as Fort Knox —demanded the same “discount,” I caved again, even though I had clearly stated my actual rate of $20 per 30-minute check-in.

In trying to be flexible, I devalued my own work.

That overcommitted weekend cost me more than energy.

Friendships suffered, too.

While racing between dogs, I ignored texts, canceled plans and barely had time for school or my leadership role at the campus magazine.

I was physically present for the dogs, but absent everywhere else.

That imbalance made me realize saying “yes” to everyone else often means saying no to myself.

Now, limits are non-negotiable.

I cap myself at three or four dogs across no more than three households — often stopping at two. The change isn’t because I can’t handle more, but because I’ve learned I don’t want to.

Protecting time and energy isn’t selfish. It’s survival, especially as a student balancing classes, deadlines and leadership roles.

Boundaries used to feel like walls shutting people out.

Now they feel more like guardrails, keeping me from crashing out.

Saying “no” isn’t rejection—it’s respect: for myself, my commitments and the people I care about.

The dogs will never know they’ve been my teachers, but they’ve shown me the importance of balancing care for others with care for myself.