Spirit of Recovery: Episode Seven
Days of Distraction
About this Series
Spirit of Recovery is a personal narrative series chronicling my journey through receiving my PTSD service dog, Spirit. It explores the physical, emotional, and spiritual challenges of healing after trauma—what it means to confront old wounds, accept help, and stay present when everything in you wants to run. These essays were written in real time during two weeks of in-residence training and testing required to receive the dog, plus the months that followed our initial partnership. I wrote these essays with honesty and vulnerability, as I navigated this unfamiliar path toward wholeness. I share them here in hopes they help others in their own journey.
You can access earlier episodes here.
When everything feels like too much, grace becomes the only option
We began the morning with a deceptively simple walk—an obstacle course of temptations disguised as dinner. Bowls and plates of food scattered along our route, carefully placed to lure our dogs into disobedience. The goal wasn’t perfection. It was response time—how quickly could we correct our dogs, and how quickly could they recover and refocus?
That’s the rhythm of these days: distraction, correction, recovery. Over and over.
Some distractions are louder than others.
Three of my fellow students are almost completely deaf. Two of them brought wives who are here to assist, though “assist” might not be the right word. During lectures, the wives speak to their husbands, often trying to explain what the instructor is saying. Although they’re trying to be helpful, the constant side conversations make it difficult for the rest of us—and even the lecturer—not to lose focus. Several times, the entire class simply begins listening to a question meant for just one couple, which inevitably becomes an argument between the two of them. And before you know it, we’re all along for the ride—all the messiness of marriage, out in the open for a roomful of strangers to observe.
Twenty minutes gone in a haze of “WHAT WAS THAT?” and secondhand irritation. Over and over again throughout the day.
I try to smile through it. I try to remember these men didn’t ask for this. None of us did. But I can feel the tension gathering in my chest. I feel restless. I feel irritable. I feel like I’m fraying at the edges.
I average six miles of walking a day here—more than the older students, many of whom are in their seventies. And yet, I’m the one falling apart.
From six in the morning to nine at night, we’re working. With the dogs, with the instructors, with each other. There’s no real privacy. No time alone. Emails from home keep coming, a drip-drip reminder that the rest of the world didn’t pause just because I asked it to. And when I do connect with home, it’s surface-level. Logistics, weather updates, schedules. No one asks how I’m really doing.
My cynical brain says they don’t ask because they don’t really want to know.
Today’s outing took us into the ultimate gauntlet: a grocery store. The air was thick with the smell of pepperoni and seafood, warm bread and human chaos. Shopping carts screeched, Nickelback blared overhead, and Spirit walked beside me like it was any other Tuesday.
She didn’t flinch… But I did.
A child squealed and reached for her ears. A grandmother leaned down with soft hands and a big smile. Both ignored the bright red DO NOT PET patch on her vest. I froze.
Here’s the thing: I get it.
Spirit is gorgeous. Her eyes are kind, her tail always wagging just enough to invite affection. Of course people want to pet her. She looks like she was made to bring comfort. And maybe she was.
But not like that.
Her training is precise. It’s about discipline. She needs consistency and timing. She’s not a therapy dog or a mascot. She’s a finely tuned piece of lifesaving equipment. When people reach for her, they aren’t just breaking a rule—they’re breaking her focus. And mine.
Still, I hate having to tell them no.
I hate being the killjoy. More than that, I hate the awkwardness that follows. The way people apologize and look hurt or embarrassed. The way I feel like I’m scolding someone who was just trying to be kind. Every part of me wants to say sure, go ahead—but I can’t. Not if I want this partnership to work.
And I do want it to work.
But today, for the first time, I really felt the weight of it. Not the training. Not the walking. Not the obedience drills or the early mornings.
The social responsibility of it all.
Do I really have to do this forever?
Do I really have to keep saying no in restaurants? Correcting people in airports? Asking coworkers not to distract her in meetings?
Every Single Time?
How many awkward conversations will I have to endure because someone just wanted to show my dog a little love?
It makes me wonder if I’m cut out for this.
Because the truth is, I’m already so tired of being misunderstood. Of explaining myself. Of constantly managing the invisible things that make my life harder. And now I have to do it all while managing the visible thing, too.
The dog.
I remind myself why I’m here. Why she’s here. What this could mean for me if I can hold the line.
But I won’t lie—today, the cost felt steep.
The Voice That Undermines Everything
Some of the dogs in our class help with mobility—picking things up, opening doors. Others are trained to hear what their humans can’t: doorbells, fire alarms, even someone calling their name. My dog’s job is harder to explain.
Spirit is trained to do several things that are designed to mitigate the worst symptoms of PTSD. She’s trained to interrupt nightmares—except she can’t really do that for me, because my nightmares don’t come with easy-to-detect warnings. Spirit is also trained to alert me when someone is approaching from behind, so I don’t startle and spiral into a panic attack. She’s trained to create space around me in public—space that feels like oxygen to someone who’s always waiting for the next invisible threat.
And yet… I still question if I belong here.
Imposter syndrome is a constant companion for me these days. There’s a voice inside me—quiet, persistent—that tells me I’m a fraud. That I’m wasting everyone’s time. That I’m stealing a resource meant for someone truly broken—someone missing limbs or perhaps an eye. Or someone with far worse cognitive effects than I have.
Two psychologists and a team of evaluators told me I would benefit from having this dog. But the voice in my head doesn’t care. It tells me I’m fine. It screams at me that I should be stronger. That I should walk away from all of this and figure out a way to make it work that doesn’t require me to advertise I have a problem.
Today, I really felt like listening to that voice.
I was tempted to throw in the towel and leave. I was tempted to walk away from it all. The work required and the level of commitment is so much greater than I imagined. The mental anguish I am experiencing is overwhelming. I wanted to crawl into a hole—at least there, I’m comfortable. Well… comfortably miserable.
But instead, I prayed.
Not a dramatic, tear-soaked prayer. More like a whisper. Please help me.
Because this is uncomfortable in a way I haven’t experienced before. This training is stripping me down, peeling away the layers of performance I’ve relied on for so long. My ego is being blunted by one impossible truth:
I don’t know how to receive love.
I don’t believe I deserve it.
And yet, people keep offering it.
The volunteers who serve us food. The strangers who cheer us on during field trips. The instructors who believe in our dogs even when we can’t. My friends. My family. They all say this is a turning point. A healing moment. A chapter worth writing.
Why can’t I feel that?
Tonight, I feel more broken than ever before. All I can do is believe there is a purpose to all of this, and keep moving forward.
With a heavy heart and many unanswered questions, tonight I cried myself to sleep.
About the Author
ES Vorm, PhD is a writer, father, and military scientist who spent years navigating war zones, research labs, and boardrooms—only to find his truest self in the quiet work of healing, homeschooling, and telling honest stories. He writes about recovery, intensity, and the long road to becoming whole.