Open Doors

Annie Mae

I noticed it the other day when I got home.

Her kennel door was wide open.

Not cracked.

Not halfway.

Open.

And she was still inside.

Curled up on her blanket, like always, waiting.

I stood there for a minute, watching.

She saw me.

Lifted her head.

Looked right at me.

But she didn’t move.

So I said, “Come out, Annie.”

And just like that, she did.

Walked out like she’d been waiting for it.

Like she needed to hear me say it was okay.

The thing is, she doesn’t need the kennel anymore.

She’s almost two.

She doesn’t have accidents.

She doesn’t tear things up.

I don’t even close the kennel door when I leave.

I haven’t for a while.

But she still goes in.

Still stays.

Still waits.

We trained her that way.

When we’d leave, we’d say “kennel,” and she’d run in and get a treat.

The kennel was safe.

Routine.

Boundaries.

A good thing.

But it isn’t necessary anymore.

It makes me wonder how many doors in my own life are open.

How many things am I free from

but I still sit inside of anyway?

Not because I have to.

Because I learned to.

Because it once made sense.

Because it once felt safe.

Because I was expected to.

And maybe that’s the harder part.

Not the cage.

But the moment it’s no longer needed.

And we don’t quite trust ourselves yet.

I wonder if I wait for permission.

Sit inside something that no longer holds me

until someone, or something, tells me it’s okay to leave.

Doors are open.

They’ve been open.