"My Reactive Dog Is Ruining My Life”: An Open Letter
Written by Lauren Tsao, MS, CDBC, CPDT-KA, DDP
At some point in the last few weeks, someone found our website by searching the words:
“My reactive dog is ruining my life.”
I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
If that was you or if it could’ve been, I want you to know this open letter was written with you in mind.
This is for the person who typed those words in the middle of a meltdown, sitting in the car after another walk gone wrong, or wide awake at 2 a.m. wondering how much longer life can feel this hard.
It’s what I wish I could say to you face-to-face, with no judgment. Just honesty, compassion, and maybe a cup of something warm.
Your dog is not broken.
They’re not a bad dog.
They’re not being dramatic.
They’re not doing this on purpose to embarrass you.
They’re overwhelmed. Overloaded. Overstimulated.
And they’re trying, really trying, to keep it together the only way they know how.
Reactivity can look loud, chaotic, or even aggressive. But more often than not, it’s the outward expression of a dog who’s having a really hard time inside their skin. Their world might feel unpredictable. Unsafe. Too fast. Too close. Too much.
They’re not giving you a hard time.
They’re having a hard time.
And that’s a big difference.
It doesn’t mean they’re beyond help. It doesn’t mean you’re failing.
It just means the approach needs to change. The question needs to shift from “How do I stop this?” to “Why is this happening in the first place?”
Because dogs don’t just “misbehave” out of nowhere. They react when something inside them or around them, feels wrong. Sometimes it’s fear. Sometimes it’s a lack of coping skills. Sometimes it’s trauma or pain that no one’s spotted yet. Sometimes it’s a body that doesn’t move or process or regulate the way it should.
That doesn’t make them broken.
That makes them in need of support.
Reacting doesn’t make them unlovable, which I’m sure you have noticed by now.
I know you’re tired. You might feel like everything is a calculation; where to go, what time, who might be there, whether you have enough treats, how quickly you can cross the street if a dog appears. You’re reading their body language constantly, sometimes better than your own. You’re doing all of this invisible labor just to make it through a walk or a vet visit or a trip in the car.
What would it feel like to stop fighting them, and start listening?
What if there’s more going on than anyone’s noticed yet?
What if this version of your dog isn’t the final one?
You're not crazy for hoping there’s something more beneath the surface. There often is.
You and your dog both deserve support that looks beyond behavior. One that asks better questions. One that gets curious before it gets corrective.
They're not broken. And neither are you.
You’re both just trying to make it through a world that wasn’t built for nervous systems like theirs.
Reactivity isn’t your fault.
Reactivity usually doesn’t occur from a single cause or source.
It’s not because you didn’t train hard enough.
It’s not because you let them on the furniture.
It’s not because you didn’t “socialize” them the right way at exactly the right window of time.
And it’s definitely not because you’re a bad dog owner.
Reactivity is layered and complex. Sometimes it comes from fear. Sometimes pain. Sometimes chronic stress. Sometimes it’s neurological. Sometimes it’s trauma that happened before they ever came to you. Often, it’s a mix of things, all tangled up together.
Most of the reactive dogs I’ve worked with?
They weren’t trying to be difficult.
They were trying to stay afloat in a world that felt unpredictable, scary, or painful.
And the people who live with them?
They're doing everything they can - with half the information, and three times the emotional load.
Trying to manage reactivity without the right support is like trying to build a house while someone keeps moving the foundation. One day your dog seems okay, the next day they’re not. You think you’re making progress, then a new trigger pops up. You’re stuck in this loop of reactivity, recovery, and regret. And no one seems to be giving you answers that actually make sense.
If no one’s said it yet: I’m sorry.
It shouldn’t be this hard to get help that looks at the whole picture.
You deserve more than management advice.
Your dog deserves more than behavior labels.
What you both need is someone who can help you figure out what’s underneath the reaction. What’s driving it, what’s maintaining it, and how to start softening it with compassion instead of control.
Reactivity is communication.
And once we understand what it’s trying to say, we can finally start helping your dog feel safe enough to say something else.
What I want you to know:
You’re allowed to grieve the version of life you imagined when you brought your dog home.
You’re allowed to say, “This is harder than I thought it would be,” without it meaning you love your dog any less.
You can hold space for both: the fierce love and the quiet resentment, the hope and the heartbreak, the moments of joy and the moments where it all just feels like too much.
You’re not failing because training hasn’t “fixed” everything.
Training alone doesn’t always reach the root of what’s going on.
But understanding? Real, honest, full-picture understanding?
That’s what opens the door to change.
And you don’t have to figure it all out on your own.
Most of the families I work with have felt some version of this.
They’ve cried in parking lots after vet appointments.
They’ve skipped walks for weeks, months, or even years. Stopping going on vacations. Stopped having people over.
They’ve Googled late at night, heart in their throat, wondering if this is just how it’s going to be or if euthnasia is the only answer.
They’ve asked themselves, “Is it me?”
It’s not.
You’re not too sensitive. Or too soft.
You’re just carrying more than anyone can see, and it’s okay to say you need support.
If no one has said this to you yet, let me be the one.
You are not a failure for finding this hard.
You are not weak for feeling worn down.
You are not the only one who’s ever wondered if you’re cut out for this.
You are someone who shows up, even on the hard days.
Someone who keeps trying, even when it feels thankless.
Someone whose dog is lucky to have them.
Whatever today looks like… take a deep breath.
You’ve made it this far.
That matters.
And your dog?
They’re not ruined.
They’re just waiting for the kind of help that sees all of them; body and brain, behavior and heart.
The version of life you imagined might look different now.
But that doesn’t mean something beautiful can’t grow here.
One step. One moment. One breath at a time.
You’ve got this.
