Tag: Personal Growth

Dempsey: Where It All Began

Wow, it’s been eight years since I met you.

Some days it only feels like yesterday. It’s strange how certain moments stay so sharp in your mind. Moments you won’t ever forget. Even if you forget the exact date once in a while, you never forget the feeling of it.

Meeting you was that moment for me.

I was nervous. I was excited. I was scared. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. You knew a lot more than I did. You already came pre-programmed. I had to learn what you knew. I had to unlearn what I thought I understood about dog behavior.

Before you, dogs were companions. Pets. Family. But you were something different. You were a partner. You had a job. And stepping into life with you meant stepping into something much bigger than I had imagined.

Dempsey was a silly chocolate lab with boundless energy. The kind of energy that filled a room before he even fully walked into it. He was mischievous in that clever, always-thinking kind of way. When he played, he played loud. Vocal. Dramatic. Fully committed. There was no halfway with you. Everything was big.

But when it came time to work, you were ready.

When you first came to live with me, I remember sitting down. I read through the notes from your trainers, your foster family, and even the prison inmates who helped train you. I wanted to know everything about the dog standing in my living room. Who you were before you were mine.

One comment has stayed with me all these years. An inmate wrote that you were eager to work. That you were ready. That you found repetition boring. You didn’t want to keep practicing the job. You wanted to go out and do the job you were meant to do.

That didn’t surprise me.

You were never content just going through the motions. You wanted real life. Real challenges. You faced challenges while working at the largest mall in America. There were lights, crowds, and noise everywhere.

Or you traveled on an Amtrak train eight hours to Chicago. This was less than three weeks after moving into my home. Three weeks. Most dogs are still figuring out where the water bowl is. And there you were, settling at my feet on a moving train like it was exactly where you belonged.

Meanwhile, I was still figuring out how to hold your leash without feeling like the entire world was watching me.

You understood your job. I was still trying to understand mine.

I had to learn how to trust you. Really trust you. I had to learn how to advocate for you. I had to learn how to take up space in public without apologizing for it. Trusting you meant admitting I needed help. And that was something I hadn’t fully made peace with yet.

You pushed me ahead simply by being ready. When I would have stayed home, you were eager to go. When I doubted whether I could handle something, you stood steady beside me like you already knew we could. Your energy didn’t just make you a good service dog—it made me braver.

You weren’t perfect. You were goofy. You got into things. You made me laugh at the worst possible times. But that was part of your magic. You reminded me that partnership didn’t have to be heavy all the time. There was room for joy. Room for chaos. Room for silliness—even in a life that required so much seriousness.

That first meeting in 2018 didn’t just introduce me to my first service dog. It reshaped the direction of my life. It changed how I see disability. It changed how I move through the world. It changed what I believe I’m capable of.

Maybe one of the greatest gifts you gave me wasn’t fully understood until after you were gone. It became clear to me later.

Can Do Canines often says, “Our dogs fetch amazing things.” After everything we experienced together, that line felt deeper. It made me think about the places we went, the fears we faced, the things I once thought were impossible.

So I had these words tattooed on my arm along with your paw print after you passed:

“Together we did amazing things.”

And we did.

We did things I never thought I could do.
We did things I was scared to do.
We stepped into spaces that once felt overwhelming and made them ours.
But we did it together.

You were always on my right side.
And in many ways, you still are.
Working with you made me a better dog dad.

Not just to you—but now to Surley.

You two could not be more different. You were a chocolate lab—energetic, chaotic, vocal when playing. Big personality. Big presence.

Surley is a yellow lab with a completely different rhythm. He’s calmer. Quieter. A little more sensitive. Where you barreled ahead, he reads the room. Where you demanded engagement, he offers steady presence.

At first, that difference took adjustment.

After years of your intensity and eagerness, learning Surley’s softer cues meant slowing down. Paying closer attention. Meeting him where he is instead of expecting what I was used to.

But I wasn’t starting from scratch this time.

You had already taught me how to listen. How to watch. How to respect that every working dog is still an individual first. You showed me that partnership isn’t about molding a dog into a standard. It’s about understanding who they already are. From there, you build trust.

Because of you, I advocate better. I communicate better. I balance structure with play. I know that behind the red cape is still a dog. This dog needs joy, decompression, and room to just be themselves.

Surley benefits from the lessons you taught me.

And in that way, your impact didn’t end three years ago. It’s still here. It’s shaping how I lead and shaping how I love. It’s still walking beside me just in a different form.

Eight years ago, you were ready to do the job you were meant to do.

You helped me become ready, too.

And for that, for you, I will always be grateful. 

Levi and his service dog, Dempsey, sharing a happy moment outdoors.

In memory of Dempsey — my first partner, my brave beginning.

02/12/26
Thirty-Three Years Later

Disclaimer: What follows in this post contains my thoughts and my recollection of childhood memories. They are 33 years old and may not be the full truth, but they are my truth.

I have written about death and loss before. Grief can reshape us. It can bring love and pain together in unexpected ways.

This reflection feels different. This isn’t just about loss. It’s about understanding what that first loss meant. It’s also about how my relationship with it has changed over time.

Thirty-three years ago, I lost my first grandparent. My grandpa, Garfield Dokken, passed away suddenly. It’s interesting how distinctly I remember that life event. Maybe it’s because it was my first experience with death as a child. Maybe it’s because of other reasons.

The Day I Learned About Death

November 3, 1992

That night is etched in my mind.

I had undergone a selective dorsal rhizotomy a surgery meant to help reduce the tightness in my legs. It was an intense surgery, and I was still sore, tired, and trying to heal.

I remember the phone ringing. My mom was staying with me at the hospital so my mom answered it. My mom was talking on the phone. I don’t recall who she was speaking to. I remember her face when she hung up. She turned to me and told me that my grandpa had passed away.

I don’t remember what I said after she told me.

My parents asked the doctors if I could go home for the funeral, but they strongly advised against it. I was still recovering.

My parents suggested that I write him a note something my dad could tuck into his pocket. So I did.

When you’re young, you don’t really understand death. You don’t grasp what it means when someone won’t walk through the door again or call you on the phone. I didn’t know what it truly meant that he was gone.

After grandpa passed this picture was above my hospital bed.

“When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.
When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.”
1 Corinthians 13:11

Growing into Grief

As I was writing this I thought of the verse from 1 Corinthians. As a child, I grieved as a child. For a long time, I carried his passing in a unique way. I saw it through the eyes of the boy in that hospital bed.

That chapter of my life always felt unfinished, the story incomplete. There was a recording of the funeral service that exists. Still, I don’t believe I have ever sat down to watch the whole thing. I don’t know if I would even want to watch it.

It took decades to realize that I needed to grieve differently, not to forget, but to forgive.

To forgive the child who couldn’t yet understand.

After years of therapy and reflection, I’ve learned to process loss with more compassion especially toward my younger self.

I’m not perfect at it, but I’m getting better everyday.

Writing Allows Grief to Evolve

In, “Passengers on the Journey”, I wrote about how the people we love are like fellow travelers. Some ride with us longer than others, but all leave an imprint on our path. My grandpa was one of my first fellow travelers to step off the bus early in my life. I didn’t understand it then, but he helped me see that love and loss are part of the same journey.

In “Holding Onto Love”, I wrote about how love doesn’t disappear when someone dies. It transforms. It changes shape. I think that’s what I’ve come to understand now, too. My love for my grandpa has transformed. It’s quieter, steadier, woven into who I am rather than something I reach for.

Questions Without Answers

Now, as an adult, I find myself wondering:
What would he think of the person I’ve become?
What would he think of the life I am leading?
What would he think of my hair, my name, my humor?

Growing up, I often heard that question used as a moral compass:

“What would your grandpa think if they saw that report card?”

“What would he say about your behavior?”

It’s something people say to motivate, to guide, or to remind us to be our best. But sometimes, it can have the opposite effect.

Instead of inspiring, it can carry shame. This is especially true when it’s tied to someone we loved deeply and would never want to disappoint.

I don’t believe those words are spoken with bad intentions.

Still, they overlook something important: the people we invoke in those moments aren’t here to speak for themselves.

We can’t know what they would think. We can’t know how they might have grown. We can’t know how their love for us might have changed over time.

Love evolves. People do too. Love remains after loss. It deserves to be carried forward. It should not be used as a measure of guilt or worth.

Closing Reflections

Thirty-three years have passed since that night in the hospital. Yet, in some ways, I’m still that child learning what it means to say goodbye. The difference now is that I can hold both the pain and the gratitude together. I can look back and see how that moment shaped me, not just in loss, but in love.

In Passengers on the Journey, I wrote about the people we love. They travel alongside us for a time. They leave their imprint even after they’ve stepped off the bus. And in Holding Onto Love, I reflected on how love doesn’t fade when someone dies. It changes shape. It becomes part of who we are.

That’s what I feel now. My grandpa is no longer a passenger beside me, but his love remains part of the path beneath my wheels. His laughter, his kindness, his presence—they continue to move with me in quiet, unseen ways.

Grief shows up differently for all of us. Sometimes loud and raw, sometimes quiet and unseen. It doesn’t leave us; it transforms. It teaches us to carry memories with gentleness. It teaches us to live in a way that honors those who came before us.

So on this anniversary, I don’t just remember his passing. I remember his life, his laughter, and the lessons that continue to guide me.

And in that remembering, I find peace.

11/03/25
The Name Between the Lines

Becoming Myself, One Letter at a Time

There’s a strange gravity in a name.

It’s the first thing we’re given, often before we take our first breath. Names come with stories, family histories, hopes, even inside jokes. They can be reminders of who we come from, or quiet promises of who someone hoped we’d become.

Sometimes, we grow into them. Sometimes, we grow around them. And sometimes, if we’re really lucky, we realize we need a name that fits where we’ve been. If we’re really brave, we choose a name that fits where we’re going.

That’s what this post is about.

I’ve always liked my middle name.

Allen. It’s simple, unassuming, it’s always felt right. It carries a softness, a steadiness that felt like home.

It’s not loud or dramatic. Allen felt like a foundation, something I can rest on. And in ways I couldn’t fully name at the time, it felt like me.

I’ve realized something interesting. I’m not the only one in my family who felt this pull toward a middle name. My grandpa Garfield was not actually born Garfield at all. His given name was Oscar Garfield Dokken.

From what I’ve pieced together in conversations with family, he chose to go by Garfield. He already had an uncle named Oscar and probably did not want the two of them to be confused.

That makes perfect sense. When I was a kid, I had a friend named Levi. When our families got together, there were two Levis in the same space. Every time someone called out “Levi,” there was that moment of uncertainty: which one? Looking back, I think that would’ve been a perfect time for me to lean into Allen.

Maybe Grandpa understood something I’m only just beginning to. Sometimes a name is about more than identity. It’s about clarity, belonging, and creating space for yourself.

That’s how I landed on Alyn. I know it’s a different spelling from my true middle name. Then again, I am a little different, so my name should be too.

It’s not a world apart from who I’ve been it’s just… closer to who I am. A little softer around the edges. A little more neutral, a little more fluid. It’s Allen with a twist. It lets me breathe.

I haven’t decided yet if I’ll change it legally. For now, this isn’t about paperwork or government forms it’s about alignment. About answering to something that feels a little more like me. About hearing a name and not flinching because it doesn’t quite match the reflection I see in my mind.

Of course, it’s not that simple.

Names carry meaning, not just for us, but for the people who gave them to us. For family, it isn’t just a label it’s something they chose with care. It could be tied to memory, a legacy and love.

I understand that. I honor that. Part of me worries that in choosing something new, I’ll seem ungrateful, or like I’m rejecting something sacred.

But here’s what I want those people to know: I’m not erasing anything. I’m not undoing the name I was given. I’m just building on it. Adding a chapter. Letting myself evolve.

I’m still me. Still your kid. Still your friend. Still your cousin, your sibling, your grandchild. Just… more me-shaped now.

Trying on Allyn, Becoming Alyn

I started experimenting with a small change spelling Allen with a y. “Allyn.” It looked different, felt different. Like trying on a jacket that just fits better.

At first, it was just between me and my therapist, then a small circle of friends. The more I used it, the more it felt like breathing freely.

Later, I tried another variation: Alyn.

I started using it with the same small group of friends. It became a place where I could test the waters. I could hear “Alyn” out loud or in text. I felt how it settled into my bones.

Now, I’m taking that step into the light with this name. Like coming out in the LGBTQIA+ community, this takes a great amount of courage. To come out in this way, in a public setting, takes an even greater amount of courage.

Some people will adjust quickly. Some might need time. And that’s okay. I’m still getting used to it too. Every time someone uses it, it feels like a little internal click, a quiet “yes.”

And when people still call me Levi, I understand. That name still holds truth, too. This isn’t about perfection. It’s about becoming.

When the Name Comes Out Before You Do

Like I said earlier, I was only sharing it with a small group of people. I was changing it on my streaming platform profiles seeing how it looked to me. I wasn’t ready to share it beyond my small circle just yet. Then, about a few days ago, that changed.

I recently made a small change on my iPhone. I updated my contact information to show the name I’d been trying on. What I didn’t realize was that Apple shares those changes with anyone in my contacts who also has an iPhone. Suddenly, my new name was in front of friends and family I hadn’t told yet.

The questions came quickly: “Who’s Alyn?”

In that instant, I was outed in a way I hadn’t planned. But maybe that’s the thing about names — sometimes they refuse to stay hidden. Sometimes they insist on being seen, even before we’re ready. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe a name knows the right time better than we do.

A Name Doesn’t Have to Be Legal to Be Real

There’s this idea that identity only counts when it comes with documentation. That it only matters once you’ve filled out a form, paid a fee, stood in line. But I don’t believe that.

My name is real the moment I say, “this is what I want to be called.”

It’s real the first time someone uses it gently. The first time someone says, “Hi Alyn.” The first time I say it in the mirror and smile.

There’s power in naming yourself. Quiet, grounded, liberating power. And you don’t need permission to do it.

If You’re Struggling With This…It’s Okay

If you’re reading this and feeling a little unsettled, I see you. Maybe you’re someone who’s known me as Levi for a long time. Maybe you’re trying to make sense of how this fits with the person you thought you knew.

I am still the person you know. I haven’t changed all that much from the person I was the last time we talked. I am just finally deciding how best to live my true authentic self.

You don’t have to get it all at once. You don’t have to understand everything to respect it. You don’t have to stop loving who I was to also love who I’m becoming.

Just keep showing up. Keep asking if you have questions. If you call me Levi, I won’t get upset. I’ll just gently remind you if you forget.

For Me, For Now

I don’t know exactly what’s ahead. Maybe I’ll legally change it someday like grandpa Garfield did. Then again maybe I won’t.

What I do know is this: I get to choose. I get to be honest. And I get to love myself enough to ask for something that fits.

So…hi. I’m Alyn.

It’s nice to meet you (again).

10/08/25
Cheers to Clarity: What Grief, Generational Patterns, and a Non-Alcoholic IPA Taught Me About Choice

Author’s Note:
This began as a casual Facebook post. It was just me, a can of non-alcoholic beer, and a quiet summer evening on the patio. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized this moment wasn’t casual at all. It was part of a larger story about grief, generational patterns, and learning to choose—really choose—what supports me best. Sometimes that looks like a cold drink. Sometimes it looks like not having one. And sometimes, it looks like sitting still with what hurts, and making a mindful choice anyway.

A Quiet Evening, A Different Kind of Cold One

It’s a quiet evening on the patio. The sun’s fading out slow and golden, and I’m sitting with a cold one in hand.

But not that kind of cold one.

This one’s a Free Wave Hazy IPA from Athletic Brewing Company. Non-alcoholic, but every bit as satisfying as the real deal. Bright. Citrusy. Complex. It hits all the right notes—just without the mental fog or emotional whiplash.

These days, before I drink anything alcoholic, I pause. I check in with myself. And I ask a question that’s become surprisingly important:
Why do I want this?
Is it for the taste? To unwind? Or… am I trying to dull something I don’t want to feel?

When Grief Shatters

After Dempsey passed in the summer of 2022, something in me broke.

Not just cracked—shattered.

He wasn’t just a dog. He was my service dog. My companion. My lifeline. Dempsey was the one creature on this earth I could trust completely. I trusted him with my safety and with my disability. I relied on him with the quiet parts of me that don’t always have words.

Grief wasn’t kind. It wasn’t poetic. It was heavy and raw and relentless. And in the middle of it, I found myself craving alcohol. It wasn’t to celebrate or relax, but to feel less.

Less pain.
Less loss.
Less of that deep, marrow-level heartbreak that doesn’t let up just because the world keeps spinning.

But I knew that craving. I knew its edges. And I knew where it could lead.

Because I come from a family with a history of alcohol misuse. Even though the people I love found their way to sobriety, those patterns still echo. That kind of history doesn’t disappear. Instead, it lingers in the background. It shapes how you respond to stress, grief, and loss. Even if you never pick up a bottle, you still inherit the instincts.

So when I felt that whisper—Just one drink. Just take the edge off—I recognized it. Not just as a moment of grief, but as part of a longer story. A story I want to write differently.

Choosing Wisely: The Power of Options

That’s where drinks like this come in. That’s why I sing the praises of Athletic Brewing like they’re saving lives. Sometimes, having a non-alcoholic option helps me stay sober in spirit. It is not just about alcohol content. It helps me stay grounded. Stay honest.

And let’s be clear: I’m not anti-alcohol. I’ll still have a drink now and then. But the rule I’ve made for myself is simple—if there’s even a fraction of hesitation, even a 0.00001% chance that I’m reaching for it to numb instead of enjoy, I choose something else.

That isn’t weakness. That’s wisdom. That’s clarity. That’s care.

Even now, Surley is by my side. My mental health is better supported. There is more stability and joy woven into my days. Still, those urges whisper sometimes. That itch still sneaks in.
And when it does, I don’t shame it. I meet it with honesty.
I ask the question again. Why do I want this?
And if I’m not sure, I choose the option that keeps me rooted.

My Choices, My Rules

You might think all this sounds excessive. Or overly cautious. Or dramatic.

That’s okay.

You’re not living my grief. You’re not carrying my history. You’re not holding my DNA or my memories or my triggers. I am.

These are my choices. My rules. My safety nets. Built not just to keep me upright, but to keep me honest with myself.

So tonight, I raise a glass—a cold one, sure, but one that supports the life I want. The healing I’ve worked for. The clarity I’ve chosen.

Cheers. 🧡🍻
To grief. To growth. To generational healing.

If you’ve been affected by grief, loss, or struggles with alcohol, you’re not alone. Feel free to share your story or thoughts in the comments below. Let’s support each other with compassion and understanding.

06/30/25