I’ve struggled with “no” my entire life. Even when my body said no, my mouth (or fingers, if I was texting) always seemed to say yes.

I was raised by a Southern Christian single mother who believed that if you had the means to help someone and didn’t, you were cursed. It didn’t matter how much it cost you; if someone asked, you gave. And I internalized that deeply. But people rarely ask whether you truly have the means. The beliefs I inherited quickly became twisted into something exploitable, used to make me feel obligated to sacrifice what I needed in order to meet someone else’s expectations.

By the time I’d graduated college and finally had my own car, my own apartment, and nice things I’d worked hard for, the same story kept repeating. My mother, who often seemed to forgo her own responsibilities, expected me to take care of her. I gave and gave, telling myself it was love. Telling myself it was the right thing. But when the roles were reversed, and I needed help, no one came to save me.

One day, during a heated argument, my mother told me she wasn’t going to pay me back the money I had loaned her for rent, the money I’d been saving to buy my first car. Her reason?
“I need to take care of myself.”

I froze. My stomach dropped. My throat restricted. Not because she said it, but because I had never said it.
I realized, in that moment, how desperately I needed to start.

That day, I made a decision: I would never again take from myself to give to someone else, especially not if it meant I was left with nothing. Even if that person was my mother. I would only give what I had to spare. And I stopped expecting others to take care of me the way I had taken care of them. I took responsibility for meeting my own needs. That was my first real boundary.

Years later, I see the same dynamic in dog training every day.

I once visited a family whose 8-week-old puppy, Chance, had already started drawing blood when biting. The household had two other dogs and three young children, and from the moment I arrived, the lack of boundaries was obvious.

The family seemed surprised to see me—despite confirming the appointment an hour prior. I waited so long outside I nearly left. When I entered, I was swarmed by their adult dogs. The children screamed over my voice. Their 7-year-old interrupted me constantly—even while I explained how their new puppy’s behavior could one day seriously harm her. No one corrected her.

It was clear: boundaries were missing everywhere.

The puppy had been bought off Craigslist, likely too young and from an irresponsible breeder. He was already showing signs of aggression and poor bite inhibition—possibly genetic. Despite their inattention during the session, they urged their desire to enroll Chance into my puppy board and train program.

“I’d be happy to work with Chance, but we’ll need to wait until he’s at least 16 weeks and has his vaccines.”

“I’d prefer to get started right away. I had blood literally dripping down my ear because of him.”

“I understand the urgency. Unfortunately, for Chance’s safety and the safety of the other dogs in my program, we have to make sure he’s fully vaccinated.” I replied.

Chance’s owner, Mario continued on as if I hadn’t said anything. He continued the conversation as if I had confirmed a start date of the following week despite my clear boundary.

Instead of arguing with him, I concluded the session on a good note and knew they likely wouldn’t end up be qualified as clients based on my assessment. I wrote myself a note to check in with them in a few weeks.

A month later, I checked in with Mario. His response, which previously were delayed or nonexistent was immediate, before the message even sent fully.

“I’m not moving forward with training right now. One of my other dogs died. Chance had parvo.”

My heart dropped when I read the message. Their lack of boundaries didn’t just impact them—it cost them another dog’s life. If I had allowed them to violate my boundaries by taking their seemingly healthy puppy into my boarding program without proper vaccination as they insisted, it could’ve costed me the life of my other client’s dogs or my own personal dog, Justice.
And yet, I see this all the time.

In training, I often say: “Clear is kind.”
It’s not just a dog training principle, it’s a relationship principle.

Being clear doesn’t mean being cruel. It means pausing before we react. It means communicating expectations rather than holding people accountable for standards we never spoke aloud. It means saying, “This isn’t working for me,” before it becomes resentment. It means saying “no” without shame, guilt, or apology.

The best relationships—whether with a dog or a human—aren’t built on power or punishment. Healthy relationships are built on consistent clarity.

Boundaries don’t make us cold.
They make us safe.
And when a dog doesn’t have them, someone always pays the price.

I teach this to dogs. And I teach it to their people.
Because a dog without boundaries is unsafe. And a human without boundaries is unwell.

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