What “My Boys” Taught Me

I've always been a dog person. Long before I understood servant leadership or Ignatian spirituality, I was just grateful for the unconditional love of a good dog. We always had dogs growing up, but my first dog as an adult was Toby (a boxer/bulldog mix), who became my unexpected mentor in classroom management.

As a first-year teacher, I was drowning in educational theory. My graduate courses gave me frameworks, philosophies, and strategies for intrinsic versus extrinsic motivation and for behavior modification in classroom management systems. However, when standing in front of twenty-eight eighth graders on that first day? None of it felt particularly relevant until I went home and trained Toby. During our training sessions, classroom management just clicked. All those theoretical frameworks suddenly made sense, not because I was consciously applying them, but because I was watching them become real right in front of me. Bring positive energy. Show your students what you expect. Practice with them. Reward them when they meet expectations. Hold them accountable when they don't. That's it. Not complicated. All that was needed was a consistent, patient, loving presence paired with clear boundaries. Toby taught me that in about three weeks. What my graduate program had actually given me was the language to understand why these simple practices work, the research base to trust them when they felt too simple, and the theoretical framework to adapt them for different situations. What Toby gave me was the embodied experience of watching abstract principles become concrete actions that actually changed behavior and built relationships.

I am grateful for all the leadership books talk about managing people and systems, with the best ones articulating what I first learned from Toby: love, consistency, and presence aren't soft sentiments. They're foundational practices that make everything else possible, which brings me to last night.

There I was, sitting on my bed with my best buddies flanking me, Moe, my thirteen-year-old lab/mastiff mix on one side, and Radley, my two-year-old shepherd/border collie mix on the other. They weren't doing anything remarkable; they were just being present, breathing the same air, and offering their particular brand of peace and joy that somehow cuts through the noise of strategic plans, budget projections, and difficult personnel decisions. In that moment of stillness, I realized these two goofballs have been carrying on Toby's work. Teaching me about leadership, grace, and living our Catholic faith in ways no professional development session ever could.

Moe Teaches Us: Healing Happens in Relationship

When I adopted Moe at seven months old, he was what dog trainers politely call "a project." He'd clearly experienced trauma, was reactive, anxious, and had trust issues that would make any therapist nod knowingly. He needed love, yes, but more than that, he required consistent, patient presence from his people.

Moe came into my life at the same time my foster son did—two traumatized souls, both needing safety, both carrying wounds they couldn't articulate. Somehow, in ways I didn't orchestrate or plan, they healed the cracks on each other's hearts. I wish I could say I had some master plan or knew exactly what I was doing. But the truth is, I was learning as I went. All I could offer was consistency—showing up every day, trying to create enough safety and stability that healing might become possible. The rest was grace.

The parable of the Good Samaritan has always moved me, but watching Moe and my son heal together gave me new eyes for it. When the Samaritan encounters the wounded man on the road, Luke tells us he "was moved with compassion at the sight. He approached the victim, poured oil and wine over his wounds, and bandaged them" (Luke 10:33-34).

Notice what the Samaritan doesn't do. He doesn't fix everything instantly. He doesn't eliminate the trauma. He doesn't miraculously heal the man's wounds. He approaches. He tends. He stays present to the suffering. He creates the conditions for healing. That's servant leadership at its core.

As Catholic school principals, we encounter wounded people constantly; teachers who are carrying trauma from previous toxic workplaces, parents projecting their own school experiences onto their children's education, and students navigating family crises we only glimpse in fleeting conversations. We can't fix these wounds. We're not therapists or saviors. But we can create the conditions for healing to happen. We can maintain a consistent presence. We can build relationships that feel safe enough for people to show up authentically. We can practice what the Jesuits call "accompaniment", walking alongside people in their struggles without trying to drag them to premature resolution.

Moe taught me that trauma-informed leadership isn't about having all the answers. It's about showing up with love, again and again, even when progress feels invisible. It's about trusting that healing happens in a relationship, not in isolation. It's about approaching, tending, staying present, just like the Samaritan on that dusty road. Thirteen years later, watching this big lug cuddle on my bed (stubborn as ever, still pushing until he gets what he wants, but peaceful and settled in ways that a young, traumatized puppy could never have imagined), I'm reminded that the work of healing is slow, unglamorous, and absolutely worth it.

Amazingly, Moe had more to teach me. This lesson came years later, when I noticed the spark beginning to dim.

The Intergenerational Wisdom of the Pack

Two years ago, as Moe moved into his senior years, I watched him age more quickly than I was ready for. The enthusiasm for walks had become mere tolerance. The playfulness had faded into dignified rest. The spark was dimming. So I made a decision: adopt a puppy who could learn from Moe's veteran wisdom and give the old guy some renewed energy. Enter Radley. Four months of absolute goofball energy. A shepherd/border collie mix who would do anything for a treat and whose life mission is apparently to be in whatever room I'm in, preferably making me laugh. I anticipated that Moe would mentor Radley with the veteran showing the rookie how things work in this pack. And that absolutely happened. Moe taught Radley the house rules, where the good napping spots are, and how to navigate our daily routines. What I didn't anticipate was that the mentoring wouldn't be one-directional.

Radley reminded Moe how to play. How to find joy in a simple game of tug-of-war. How to get excited about a walk instead of just tolerating it. How to be silly, undignified, and fully alive again. Moe got his spark back. The newcomer renewed the veteran. Ecclesiastes tells us, "Two are better than one... For if they fall, one will lift up the other" (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10). What strikes me about this passage is the mutuality of it. Not "the older lifts the younger" or "the experienced rescues the inexperienced.", but both lift each other. They need each other.

This support and love are exactly what happens when we build genuinely intergenerational leadership teams in our Catholic schools. We need the twenty-eight-year veteran teachers who know every phonics program that's come and gone, who remember what worked before we tried to reinvent the wheel, who carry institutional memory and hard-won classroom wisdom. We also need our first-year teachers. The Radleys of our faculty. Fresh energy. Haven't yet learned what's "impossible." Ask "why not?" about things we stopped questioning years ago. But here's the critical insight that watching Moe and Radley taught me: mentoring can't be one-directional if we want it to be life-giving for everyone.

When we only extract wisdom from veterans to train newcomers, we burn out our experienced teachers. They become exhausted repositories of knowledge with no new input, no renewed spark, no joy in the work they once loved. When we only celebrate innovation from new teachers, we communicate that experience doesn't matter, that institutional memory is a liability rather than an asset, that starting over is always better than building on what works. Sustainable leadership pipelines require genuine mutuality. Veterans need the energy and fresh perspectives of newcomers. Newcomers need the wisdom and grounding of experience. And when we create the conditions for this kind of intergenerational exchange, everybody gets their spark back. When someone falls (and we all fall sometimes), the community lifts them.

Watching Moe and Radley together reminds me that the best leadership teams aren't hierarchical chains of command. They're packs where everyone has something to offer and something to learn. Shockingly, there were more lessons still. Radley, this goofy puppy who gave Moe back his joy, had one more essential lesson to teach me. A lesson that goes to the heart of what it means to lead with faith.

Presence and Energy as Spiritual Practice

Radley always wants to be in the room with me. Not doing anything. Not demanding attention. Just... present. If I'm working at my desk, he'll sprawl under it. If I'm cooking dinner, he'll park himself in the kitchen. If I move to another room, he'll relocate with a dramatic sigh as if to say, "Well, if you insist on moving again..." And here's what I've learned from this goofy dog's insistence on proximity: presence is its own gift.

Radley doesn't bring me solutions to my problems. He doesn't offer strategic advice or clever insights. He just shows up, fully present, with what I can only describe as positive energy. And somehow? That's enough. That presence brings me peace and joy even on the days when the budget needs to be balanced, and the difficult conversations won't go away.

The psalmist knew something about this kind of presence: "Be still and know that I am God" (Psalm 46:10). Not "be productive and prove you are worthy." Not "be strategic and demonstrate your value." Just... be still. Be present. Know. This simple verse has become one of my anchors in the chaos of school leadership, and Radley embodies it every single day. He's teaching me the most counter-cultural lesson for those of us in educational leadership. We've learned to believe our value comes from our productivity. From the problems we solve, the initiatives we launch, and the measurable outcomes we produce. We show up to meetings with agendas and action items. We measure our effectiveness by our outputs. But what if the most important thing we bring isn't our strategic plan, but our energy and presence? 

Think about the leaders who have most impacted your own life. Yes, some of them were brilliant strategists. But more often? What you remember is how you felt in their presence. The principal who noticed when you were struggling and just sat with you without trying to fix it. The superintendent who brought calm to chaos just by walking into the room. The colleague whose joy was somehow contagious even during the hardest seasons. What you remember is their energy. Their presence. The way they made you feel seen and valued simply by the quality of their attention.

Saint Ignatius taught that we should attend to "spirits", the movements of consolation and desolation, the energy we bring and receive in our interactions. It's recognizing that the intangible atmosphere we create matters as much as the tangible structures we build.

The energy you bring to a faculty meeting matters as much as the agenda. The presence you offer a struggling teacher matters as much as the improvement plan. The way you show up distracted and anxious, or grounded and attentive, shapes the culture of your entire school. Radley reminds me of this every single day: sometimes the most faithful thing you can do is just show up fully present, with good energy, and trust that your presence itself is a gift. Be still. Be present. Know that you are not God, you don't have to fix everything, but you can reflect God's love through the quality of your attention.

Living the Lessons

So here's what I know after years of learning from Toby, Moe, and Radley. Catholic school leadership is ultimately about love that shows up daily. It's about faithfulness in small moments. It's about being present to those entrusted to our care, even when—especially when—presence feels less impressive than productivity. Jesus said it simply: "Love one another as I have loved you" (John 15:12). Not "manage one another efficiently." Not "optimize one another's performance." Not "implement best practices for one another."

Love. And how did Jesus love? He approached the wounded and created space for healing. He honored both the wisdom of elders and the faith of children. He was fully present so that people felt seen, known, and held. He showed up with energy that transformed rooms and calmed storms. This is the leadership our Catholic schools need.

Not more initiatives, strategies, or programs. But leaders who understand what Moe, Radley, and yes, even Toby, all those years ago, have been trying to teach us: Love is patient. Healing happens in a relationship. Mentoring flows both ways. Presence is its own gift. Good energy matters. Consistency and clear expectations, offered with positive energy, create the conditions for growth.

These aren't soft sentiments to make us feel warm and fuzzy. They're the foundational practices of servant leadership. The daily habits that prepare us to stand firm when everything around us is shaking. The spiritual disciplines that sustain us through impossible situations. The best teachers of these truths aren't always the leadership experts, management gurus, or professional development consultants. Sometimes they're a boxer/bulldog mix who taught a first-year teacher that love and consistency matter more than complicated theory. Sometimes they're a stubborn thirteen-year-old lab/mastiff who taught a traumatized boy how to trust again. Sometimes they're a goofy two-year-old shepherd/border collie who reminds an aging dog—and his person—that presence and joy are gifts we can choose to bring into every room we enter.

Sometimes our best teachers are the ones who simply show up, day after day, with love that looks a lot like wagging tails, patient presence, and the willingness to just be in the room with us.

I've always been a dog person. And I'm grateful every day for what these teachers with four legs and unconditional hearts have taught me about leading with love.