Before I became a dog trainer, I worked in Human Resources.
I had a B.A., a stable career, and a clear idea of what “trust” meant — at least between people.
Then came Shon, a beautiful beagle puppy who turned my whole world upside down.

We picked him for the same reason so many families choose their first dog — because he was adorable, full of light and personality.
Six months later, right in the middle of his most critical stage of development, we brought home Bruno, an anxious rescue mix who needed patience and understanding.
A little later, we added Sansa, a cat with her own opinions about sharing space.

Our house was alive and busy — full of love, noise, and mismatched personalities.
But underneath the happy chaos, tension began to grow.
The dogs struggled to settle, and I didn’t yet understand why.

When I asked for help, I turned to a local trainer — someone who looked experienced and confident.
She had three beautiful Vizslas who followed her every move, and I trusted that she knew what she was doing.
But her advice was something I’ll never forget.

She told us to shout at the dogs “loud enough to make the windows shake.”
She said that if they resisted nail trims, we should wrap them in a blanket, hold them down, and just get it done.

Something in me sank. It felt wrong in every possible way — but I didn’t know better, and like many people, I thought maybe that’s what “training” meant.
It took only two sessions for me to stop.
But the damage had already begun.

Shon changed.
The sparkle in his eyes dulled. He started to pull away, watching my every move as if waiting for the next bad thing to happen.
He guarded everything — food, toys, a spot on the floor.
He stopped trusting me.
And that loss of trust… it’s like losing a heartbeat in your home.

Bruno came back to me faster — he always carried lighter worries — but Shon… he was different.
Every small thing became a reminder of what I’d broken.
It took nearly three years to rebuild even a fraction of the connection we once had.

That experience changed me more than any degree or certification ever could.
I saw firsthand how fragile trust is — and how once you cross that line, the road back is long, uncertain, and filled with heartbreak.

It’s not that dogs stop loving you; it’s that they no longer feel safe loving you.
And when safety is gone, learning, joy, and connection vanish with it.

That realization pulled me out of the career I had and into the one I was meant for.
I went back to school, studied professional dog training, and learned the science behind what I’d already felt in my heart: dogs learn best when they feel safe.

Today, with Tails Solutions, I help families protect that trust — to build relationships rooted in understanding, calm communication, and emotional safety.
Because trust isn’t something you “train” — it’s something you earn, moment by moment.
And once you have it, everything else — obedience, focus, confidence — becomes possible.