It started with a search for a dog – not a big life shift, just a hopeful browse through ads. One in particular stood out: a Golden Retriever had “found love” with the neighbor’s black Labrador, and the owners were looking for good homes for the pups.

They noted something unexpected in their description – this wasn’t just a happy coincidence. The two breeds together formed a known mix: a Goldador. Bred to be the ultimate service dogs, Goldadors combine the gentleness of Golden Retrievers with the focus and work ethic of Labradors, making them ideal for guide and therapy work.

That detail stuck with me, but it was just a nice story – until it became more.

We named our dog Pablo. He was friendly, observant, and steady. During our first dog training class, the instructor who observed him said, “This dog was made for therapy work. You have to go down that path.” She didn’t know the story about his breed or its purpose. But in that moment, the comment hit me differently. The two separate moments – one from a casual ad, the other from a professional trainer – landed like puzzle pieces clicking together. I kept that thought quietly with me. But when Pablo was two and a half years old, I decided to apply for the therapy dog testing organized by the Slovenian Association for Dog-Assisted Therapy, known as “Helping Paws.” We passed and were accepted into a 25-hour apprenticeship program, with the 26th hour serving as the final exam.

During the apprenticeship, I was paired with my dear mentor Barbara and her American Akita, Besi. Under their guidance, Pablo and I participated in visits to kindergartens, primary schools, youth rehabilitation and reintegration centers, elderly homes, individual sessions with children with ADHD, and centers for adults with special needs. These settings couldn’t have been more different in their needs, pace, communication styles, and emotional temperatures. Each one offered its own rhythm, its own learning curve. The experience taught me more than I expected. It wasn’t just about Pablo being gentle and well-trained; it was about how we entered a space together. I had to pay attention to so many layers: how the group was reacting, how Pablo was responding to them, and how to keep things grounded without pushing too far or holding back too much. And all of this while creating space for those who came to therapy – many of whom often don’t feel seen or heard in the same way outside these sessions – to feel safe enough to open up or simply be.

These lessons didn’t stay within the therapy setting. I found myself approaching my work and personal life with a different pair of eyes. At the CEF, we work in environments that also bring people together across institutions, roles, and lived experiences – to reflect, share, and learn from one another. We support a participatory approach to learning, where ownership, trust, and space matter. I began to notice parallels between preparing and holding a dog-assisted therapy session and how we approach organizing and carrying out our learning activities – or our work in general.

Of course, the contexts are very different. But there’s something about switching between roles – from a therapy dog guide to working at the CEF – that reveals new ways of doing both. Each role sharpens the other. I found myself more attuned to subtle shifts in energy. More comfortable with silence. More patient when things didn’t go to plan.

One doesn’t replace the other. But they enrich each other.

Volunteering in this way isn’t easy. We dedicate between two to four hours a week, and because we're very active and engaged during each session, Pablo is often physically and emotionally very tired afterwards – and so am I. I’ve had to learn how to support both of our recoveries. That’s part of the job, too: learning how to show up, protect, and care for your partner, your colleague, and also yourself.

There are, of course, days when I question whether I have the time and energy. But the feedback we receive keeps me going. Staff at the institutions we visit describe how the presence of a dog unlocks something in people – motivation, calm, laughter, sometimes even a renewed will to push through a difficult time. Children read with more confidence, knowing the dog won’t judge them. And older adults – even those facing challenges like dementia – often find joy and motivation to exercise or speak, simply because the dog is there, quietly waiting and offering comfort without a word. A dog walks into the room, and something shifts. It’s not about doing anything extraordinary – it’s about being there in a way that's hard to explain but easy to feel. It’s humbling to witness that.

And even though this is “volunteering,” I constantly feel like I’m on the receiving end. I have the privilege of meeting people from all walks of life and hearing their stories. They’ve taught me so many things: reading people without rushing to label them; adapting when things change mid-session; trusting the process, the people around me, myself – and, of course, Pablo. Even when it’s slow, or quiet, or messy. These aren't qualities I trained for, but ones that emerged through the pace of showing up, again and again, with Pablo by my side.

This experience has made me think about how many parts of our lives run in parallel, often gently influencing one another. My time as a therapy dog guide hasn’t changed what I do at the CEF, but it has certainly changed how I do it. And in return, the practices we nurture at work, like reflection, co-creation, care, and focusing on people, have made me a better guide for Pablo and being able to better engaged with those we visit.

In the end, the overlap between these worlds isn't some grand transformation story. It’s something softer. A subtle change and a bit of growth. A noticing of the small signals, the gentle shifts, the moments when simply being present, without rushing to fix or lead, is enough.

And for all of that, I’m profoundly grateful.