Still Breathing, Still Learning

It was a quiet afternoon when the dog bit me. A stray with sharp eyes and sharper teeth, it lunged before I even saw it coming. I was walking back home, lost in thought—overthinking as always, my mind drowning in memories and mistakes. The bite wasn’t deep, but it hurt. It bled. And yet, that pain taught me more than a dozen self-help books ever did.

For months, I had been trapped in a cycle of regret and guilt. I failed a relationship, disappointed my parents, and quit a job I thought would change my life. I felt like a complete failure. Like I had nothing left to offer. People kept saying, “You need to change,” as if becoming someone else would fix everything. But I wasn’t broken—I was just breathing through the pain.

The day the dog bit me, I was already having a bad day. I stepped out for air, for clarity, for some sort of sign from the universe. What I got was teeth on my ankle. I shouted, limped, and sat on a park bench feeling a mix of anger and confusion. But something about the rawness of that moment—sitting there in pain, in silence—made me feel alive. Like I was still part of this world, no matter how badly it had gone lately.

A kind old man sitting nearby noticed the bite and offered help. He told me, “That dog bites everyone who walks by, but only some stop to reflect.” I laughed. It was the first time in weeks. We talked for a while. He had a weathered face and a calm voice. He told me his story—divorced twice, estranged from his children, bankrupt at 50. But he smiled as he said, “I’m still here, breathing. Still learning.”

That line stuck with me.

Back home, I cleaned the wound. No infection. No scar left behind. Just a little mark, a reminder of a strange but important day. I started thinking about all my so-called failures. Were they really failures, or just moments that didn’t go as planned? I failed at things, sure—but did that mean I failed at life? I was still breathing. That had to count for something.

I remembered the time I told my best friend I didn’t want to talk anymore. I was angry, hurt, and immature. I regretted it every day after. I sent them a message that night after the bite. They replied: “I miss you.” We talked for hours. Sometimes, we just need something to shake us awake.

Over the next few weeks, I stopped trying to change who I was. Instead, I started understanding myself. I didn't need to become a new person. I just had to be honest with who I already was. Yes, I make mistakes. Yes, I overthink. But I also feel deeply, love hard, and care a lot. That’s not weakness. That’s humanity.

I started writing again, short stories, poems, and notes to myself. One of them read, “Even if I fall ten times, I rise eleven. Not always strong, not always fast—but always up.” I stuck it to my mirror.

Healing doesn't always look like a perfect journey. Sometimes, it's limping with a dog bite and still choosing to move forward. It’s replying to a message you were too proud to answer. It's making peace with the fact that life won’t always make sense, but you can still live it fully.

One evening, I walked past the same street where the dog bit me. The dog was gone. Maybe someone took it in. Maybe it just moved on. But as I passed that spot, I didn’t feel fear. I felt strength.

Not the kind that comes from muscles or medals. But the kind that comes from surviving something you thought would destroy you.

So here I am. Still breathing. Still learning. Still failing sometimes, yes—but never giving up. Because failing at things is human. But failing at life? That only happens when you stop trying.