Yoda's Flow

A story of unconditional joy and the hidden gifts of challenge

Yoda came into our lives like a tiny whirlwind of light.

A pug pup with a smooshed face full of mischief and a tail that curled, he bounced into our world already radiating joy. He twirled in delighted circles, wiggled his whole body when we walked in the door, and exploded with laughter—yes, pugs can laugh—when he chased toys across the room. We laughed too, every time.

He was a small dog, but his presence filled our hearts and our home. Especially when we’d go to the ocean. The sight of him bounding into the surf, his little legs splashing through the shallow waves, will never leave me. He was fearless in the water, in the wind, and in life. He loved it all. No hesitation. No questions. Just pure, uncomplicated presence.

At the end of each sun-filled day, tired from playing and loving with everything he had, Yoda would climb into my lap and drift off to sleep. Warmth and peace. That was our ritual… his breathing slowed, his trust complete, his little body pressed into mine. In those moments, I knew love without condition.

As time passed, our lives evolved. We bought a home with a staircase. A new chapter. A new flow. Yoda took on this challenge too… up and down the stairs with me every day, loyal and determined. He wasn’t just a dog; he was a companion on life’s journey. And just like the rest of us, he aged.

At first, it was subtle. A stumble here. A pause there. Eventually, the stairs became difficult, then nearly impossible. So I began to carry him. One flight, then another. He didn’t mind—he just wanted to be with me, with Sky, with us. The weight of him in my arms was more than just physical… it was a reminder that love means adapting, lifting, showing up.

Then came the storm.

The incontinence arrived like an uninvited guest… sudden, messy, exhausting. Urine. Feces. Every room became a battlefield. Add to that his failing legs, his deafening ears, his falls. It would’ve been easy to say, It’s time. He’s too old. Too broken. And we almost did. We almost said goodbye. Partly because he seemed ready… and also because we were overwhelmed.

But then we paused. And we watched.

Despite the falls, despite the mess and the exhaustion… Yoda was still there. His eyes still lit up when we walked into the room. He still followed us from space to space, even if he collapsed along the way. He still curled up in my lap every night, as peaceful and present as ever. He still loved the experience of being alive. He hadn’t given up on life. Why should we?

So we found diapers. We got creative. We let go of what life should look like and embraced what it could look like. And in that surrender, something beautiful happened:

Yoda’s joy became our teacher.

His presence — despite failing limbs, failing organs — remained unshaken. He wasn’t concerned with what he had lost. He didn’t mourn his former self. He simply adapted. He simply was. Joyful. Aware. Present.

And that, I’ve realized, is the Flow Journey.

So many times in life, when we face overwhelming challenges, whether in our bodies, our relationships, our work, our purpose… we feel the urge to give up. To walk away. To assume the story is over because it’s not going the way we imagined.

But flow teaches us something radical: When we stop resisting what is, when we release our grip on how life should look, we begin to see hidden opportunities. Unexpected joys. A deeper kind of connection. We awaken.

Yoda’s journey reminds us that flow isn’t about ease. It’s about surrender. It’s about trust. It’s about dancing with life as it comes, rather than holding onto what used to be.

And the truth is, Yoda doesn’t care that he wears diapers now. He doesn’t care that his back legs fail him. He doesn’t feel shame, or loss, or fear. He feels life. He follows it. He trusts it.

And because of that… so do we.

We nearly missed this chapter. We nearly denied him, and ourselves, the deeper love that comes when you stay with the challenge. But staying gave us the gift of seeing Yoda as more than a dog.

He is a guide. A teacher. A little bodhisattva in a pug’s body.

Still curled up in my lap each night.

Still showing me how to flow.