Two Books, One Family: Our Journey Through PTSD and Healing

Through every hard season, every quiet prayer, and every small moment of joy, we kept going on together Dennis, Smokey and me.

Through every hard season, every quiet prayer and every small moment of joy, we kept going together... Dennis, Smokey and me.

I never thought I would write two books about our life.

Honestly, I never planned to write even one.

I was simply trying to hold on to memories.

Some memories made me laugh.

Some made me smile.

Some still hurt when I think about them.

And some were so heavy that I think my heart needed somewhere safe to put them.

That is how my two books came to be.

They are very different stories, but they belong together.

One is about trauma, marriage, faith, and our family's journey through PTSD and healing after my husband Dennis was badly hurt.

The other is about a little Shih Tzu named Smokey who came into our home with tiny paws, a big personality, and absolutely no idea how much we needed him.

One book tells you about some of the pain our family carried.

The other shows you some of the joy that found us afterward.

Underneath both stories is the same thing.

Love.

Not perfect love.

Not easy love.

Real love.

The kind that keeps showing up.

Before Smokey, Our Life Had Already Changed

Before Smokey came into our lives, Dennis and I had already been through something that changed our family forever.

In 2011, Dennis was seriously injured while working in the state prison system.

That day did not end when he came home from the hospital.

The visible injuries were only part of what came home with us.

Afterward came the nightmares.

The fear.

The silence.

The pain.

The sudden reactions to sounds.

The way his body stayed alert even when there was no danger around him.

The way ordinary places could suddenly feel unsafe.

A grocery store was no longer just a grocery store.

A crowded room could feel overwhelming.

A sudden noise could make his whole body react.

Sleep was not always peaceful.

Some nights, his body seemed to be fighting something his mind was remembering.

PTSD changed Dennis.

And the truth is, it changed me too.

I was still going to work.

Still cooking.

Still cleaning.

Still making phone calls.

Still scheduling appointments.

Still trying to keep our life moving.

From the outside, I probably looked strong.

Inside, I was scared.

Tired.

Confused.

Sometimes angry.

Sometimes lonely.

And many times, I cried where no one could see me.

In the bathroom.

In the shower.

In the closet.

Anywhere I could have a few minutes alone to fall apart before putting myself back together again.

That part of our life became Love That Never Let Go: A Journey Through Trauma, Faith, and Hope.

Why I Wrote Love That Never Let Go?

I wrote this book because I wanted to tell the truth about what trauma can do to a person.

But I also wanted to tell the truth about what can happen to the person standing beside them.

People naturally asked about Dennis.

How is he doing?

Is he feeling better?

Is he healing?

Those questions mattered.

He was the one who had been physically hurt.

He was the one experiencing PTSD.

But I was hurting too.

For a long time, I did not know how to say that without feeling guilty.

How could I talk about being tired when Dennis was suffering?

How could I admit that I was lonely when I knew what he was going through?

How could I say that I was scared too?

So I stayed quiet.

I thought being a good wife meant being strong all the time.

I thought love meant carrying everything without complaining.

I thought my job was to hold Dennis up, even when my own knees were shaking.

Looking back, I understand something now that I did not fully understand then.

The person supporting someone with PTSD needs support too.

Their feelings matter too.

The husband, wife, partner, parent, child, or friend standing beside someone through trauma can also become exhausted.

They can feel afraid.

They can become overwhelmed.

They can love someone deeply and still have difficult emotions.

Both things can be true at the same time.

You can love someone with your whole heart and still be tired.

For Those Living With PTSD and Those Who Love Them

One of the biggest reasons I wanted to share our journey through PTSD and healing is because I know we are not the only family living this reality.

There are people who wake up every day carrying memories they never asked for.

There are people who look completely fine on the outside while fighting battles inside their minds and bodies that nobody else can see.

And beside many of them is someone who loves them.

A husband.

A wife.

A partner.

A parent.

A child.

A friend.

Someone trying to understand.

Someone learning when to speak and when to give space.

Someone wondering what to do when a nightmare comes.

Someone trying not to take the silence personally.

Someone quietly asking:

How can I help the person I love without losing myself too?

PTSD does not always stay with only one person.

It can affect the rhythm of an entire home.

Sleep can change.

Plans can change.

Relationships can change.

Conversations can become harder.

Simple errands can feel different.

Even sitting in a restaurant or walking through a crowded store can become something that requires thought and preparation.

People living with PTSD may understand parts of Dennis's story.

The fear.

The nightmares.

The frustration.

The silence.

The need to watch the room.

The feeling of not recognizing yourself anymore.

And people who love someone with PTSD may understand parts of my story.

The worry.

The exhaustion.

The confusion.

The loneliness of missing someone who is sitting right beside you.

The guilt that sometimes comes from feeling tired.

The pressure to keep everything together.

The constant question:

Am I doing enough?

I want both people to feel seen.

To the person living with PTSD:

You are not your trauma.

You are not weak because certain sounds, places, memories, or situations are difficult for you.

You still deserve love.

Patience.

Help.

Treatment.

Understanding.

And hope.

To the person standing beside someone with PTSD:

Your feelings matter too.

Loving someone does not mean you must hide every emotion.

It does not mean you have to carry everything alone.

It does not mean your fear, exhaustion, or sadness are unimportant.

You deserve support too.

You deserve rest.

You deserve someone to ask how you are doing and actually wait for the answer.

For a long time, I thought strength meant keeping everything inside.

Now I believe strength can also look like asking for help.

Talking to someone.

Resting.

Praying.

Setting healthy boundaries.

Accepting professional support.

And saying honestly:

I love this person deeply, but this is hard for me too.

There is no shame in that.

You can need help and still have faith.

You can live with PTSD and still experience joy.

You can have a hard day and still be healing.

You can love someone deeply without having all the answers.

Dennis and I are still learning.

We are not telling our story because we have figured everything out.

We are telling it because maybe someone living with PTSD will read it and think:

Someone understands.

And maybe the person sitting beside them will read it and think:

Someone sees me too.

Then Came Smokey

And then came Smokey.

Our little boy.

Our funny, stubborn, dramatic, sweet Shih Tzu.

Smokey did not walk into our home knowing what had happened to us.

He did not know what PTSD was.

He did not know about trauma.

He did not know our hearts had been tired.

He was just Smokey.

And somehow, that was exactly what we needed.

He brought laughter into the house.

He followed us from room to room.

He created routines.

He had very strong opinions for such a small dog.

He had his purple blanket.

His favorite toys.

His cheese expectations.

His dislike of snow.

His dramatic expressions.

His habit of making ordinary things feel important.

And sometimes he just stayed close.

No questions.

No explanations.

No pressure.

Just presence.

There is something special about the comfort an animal can give.

A dog does not ask you to explain why you are having a difficult day.

He does not tell you to hurry up and feel better.

He does not expect you to find the perfect words.

Sometimes he simply sits beside you.

Breathes.

Waits.

Stays.

And somehow the room feels a little less heavy.

That Became Smokey: The Little Dog That Saved Us

The Smokey book is a different kind of story.

It has more laughter.

More everyday life.

More of Smokey being completely and unapologetically Smokey.

His stubborn moments.

His funny habits.

His love for his purple blankie.

His cheese negotiations.

His hatred of snow.

His window patrols.

His adventures.

His dramatic little personality.

The book is about what happens when a dog becomes more than a pet.

When he becomes family.

When his routines become part of your routines.

When his little face becomes the one you look for when you come home.

When the sound of his paws makes your house feel alive.

When the ordinary moments become the memories you know you will carry forever.

But underneath all the funny stories is something deeper.

Smokey came into a home that needed joy.

And he brought it without trying.

He did not erase our pain.

He did not cure PTSD.

He did not make every difficult thing disappear.

But he gave us moments that were not about fear.

Moments that were not about appointments.

Moments that were not about pain.

He gave us reasons to laugh.

Reasons to slow down.

Reasons to be present.

Sometimes healing does not come as one big moment.

Sometimes it comes in little pieces.

A laugh in the kitchen.

A quiet walk.

A wagging tail.

A funny routine.

A warm little body sleeping beside you.

A dog resting his head against someone who has had a difficult day.

Why these book belong together?

At first, my two books may seem completely different.

One is about PTSD and trauma.

The other is about a dog.

But to me, they are connected.

They are two parts of the same family story.

Love That Never Let Go tells you about some of what hurt us.

Smokey: The Little Dog That Saved Us shows you some of what brought laughter and comfort back into our home.

One explains why our hearts needed healing.

The other shows one of the unexpected ways comfort found us.

One says:

This is what happened to our family.

The other says:

This is some of what helped us keep going.

And both books say:

Love is still here.

Faith Was Never About Pretending Everything Was Fine

Faith is part of both books because faith is part of my life.

But I want to be honest about that too.

There were times I asked God why.

There were times I did not understand.

There were times I was angry.

There were times I was exhausted.

Not every prayer was beautiful.

Sometimes my entire prayer was:

God, help me.

That was it.

I did not always feel strong.

I did not always understand what was happening.

I did not always know what tomorrow would look like.

Faith did not make trauma disappear.

It did not erase the nightmares.

It did not remove every hard day.

But it gave me somewhere to place the fear I could not carry by myself.

It reminded me that asking for help was not a failure.

Prayer was part of our journey.

So were appointments.

Professional care.

Treatment.

Medication.

Adjustments.

Learning.

Patience.

And taking life one day at a time.

For me, faith was never about pretending everything was fine.

Sometimes it was simply saying:

God, I don't know how to do this. Please help me through today.

Then tomorrow came.

And I prayed it again.

I Did Not Write These Books Because We Are Perfect

We are not.

Not even close.

I did not write these books because I have all the answers.

I don't.

I wrote them because life is messy.

Because love can be beautiful and exhausting at the same time.

Because marriage is not made only of anniversaries, vacations, and happy pictures.

Sometimes marriage looks like laughter in the kitchen.

Sometimes it looks like sitting in a hospital.

Sometimes it looks like making another appointment.

Sometimes it looks like holding someone's hand.

Sometimes it means giving space.

Sometimes it means sitting quietly.

Sometimes it means admitting you need help too.

And sometimes love has four paws and follows you everywhere.

Including the bathroom.

That is real life.

Ours, anyway.

Our Journey Through PTSD and Healing Is Still Being Written

Our story is not over.

Dennis and I are still learning.

Still adjusting.

Still finding our way through good days and hard ones.

Still praying.

Still taking things one day at a time.

And yes, we are still laughing at Smokey.

That is something I want people to understand about PTSD and healing.

Healing does not always mean forgetting.

It does not always mean returning to exactly who you were before.

Sometimes healing means learning how to live again.

Finding moments of peace.

Accepting help.

Laughing without guilt.

Letting yourself hope again.

Building a life around what has changed without allowing the pain to take everything that is still good.

Nothing in our life is perfect.

But there is still love here.

There is still laughter.

There is still faith.

There is still hope.

And sometimes, that is enough to help us take the next step.

For the Person Reading This

Maybe your story is nothing like ours.

Or maybe part of it feels familiar.

Maybe you are living with PTSD.

Maybe you love someone who is.

Maybe you are the one standing beside someone with PTSD, trying to stay strong while quietly carrying your own fear, exhaustion, and questions.

Maybe you are tired of being told how strong you are when what you really need is for someone to stop and ask:

Are you okay?

Maybe your dog has helped you through a season nobody else fully understands.

Maybe you are simply trying to make it through today.

I want you to know something.

You do not have to pretend.

You are allowed to be tired.

You are allowed to need help.

You are allowed to have good days without feeling guilty.

You are allowed to laugh while you are still healing.

You are allowed to rest.

You are allowed to hope.

A difficult day does not erase the progress you have made.

Needing help does not make you weak.

And having faith does not mean pretending that pain does not hurt.

Take today as it comes.

Then take the next one.

You do not have to understand the whole road before taking the next step.

Read Our Story

Smokey: The Little Dog That Saved Us is for anyone who has ever loved a dog so deeply that the dog became part of the family.

It is a story of laughter, ordinary moments, healing, and the little Shih Tzu who brought joy and comfort into our home.

Love That Never Let Go: A Journey Through Trauma, Faith, and Hope is for people living with PTSD, people who love someone with PTSD, those quietly carrying the weight of standing beside them, and anyone trying to hold on to faith and hope when life changes unexpectedly

These are two different books.

But together, they tell one story.

Our family's story.

A story of pain.

Laughter.

Marriage.

PTSD and healing.

Faith.

A little dog with a very big personality.

And the love that helped us keep going.

Read our story and walk with us through the moments that changed our family forever.