How Bonnie Saved My Life

I need to tell you about Bonnie.

Not because she was remarkable in the way the world measures remarkable — though she was, profoundly, to me. But because her story is woven so completely into my healing journey that I cannot tell one without the other.

And because somewhere out there is someone who needs to know that sometimes the thing that saves you arrives on four paws, unannounced, on a May morning in the middle of a pandemic.

Before Bonnie

2020 broke something in me that twenty years of endometriosis, cancer and complex health challenges hadn't quite managed.

The isolation. The fear. The sudden absence of everything that had structured my days — the commute, the colleagues, the sense of purpose and forward motion. Without those things, what had been carefully managed for years began to surface.

Depression. Severe panic attacks. And eventually — a diagnosis I hadn't seen coming — PTSD. Triggered by the stillness of lockdown reaching back into the trauma of my cancer recovery twenty years before, finally demanding to be dealt with.

I was told later that had Covid not happened — had this not all come to a head when it did — they would probably have sectioned me.

I sat with that for a long time.

It felt like twenty plus years of constantly fighting to be heard, of feeling pain and heartache that nobody could fully see — had finally found a name. A shape. A diagnosis that said: this is real and it has always been real.

And then, just as I was beginning to understand what that meant — I asked Ian if I could borrow Lacey.

The borrow that changed everything

Ian and I don't live together. But I knew his parents had four dogs, and I needed something I couldn't quite articulate. A purpose. Something to do. Something alive that needed me.

Lacey was sweet. Two days with her told me everything I needed to know.

Unbeknown to me, Ian was already trying to find a dog he could buy for me. He had bought a dog for his dad — a boy called Sid — and when he went to collect him, he found Bonnie. Pregnant with Sid's pups.

The rest, as they say, was inevitable.

15th May 2020. She arrived.

That first night

I let her wander around the home. Just exploring, just settling, just becoming familiar with the space that would become hers.

And then I sat on my knees on the kitchen floor.

She came to me. Put her two front paws on my knees. And dropped her head — just rested it there, heavy and trusting and completely present.

My heart was fixed.

That was it. She was my girl. I was so in love.

The adventures

We went everywhere together. The woods, every evening, wherever our noses took us. We saw rabbits and foxes and deer. We'd walk for hours — no destination, no plan, just Bonnie and me and the particular quality of attention that dogs bring to the world.

She'd silently ask permission to go into the woods I couldn't enter. A look. A pause. "Just to have a look, Mam?" She was so clever. She knew her way around the village almost immediately.

She had an opinion about everything and communicated it with complete clarity and zero apology.

On 1st November Heidi arrived — because I realised Bonnie needed a pet of her own. 😁

Bonnie and yoga

She loved it.

She'd join me on the mat and we'd have the most joyful, completely non-serious practices. She'd nibble my nose in downward dog. She'd lie on her back mid-flow, showing me her tummy, waiting for it to be kissed. She took the strictness out of a practice in the best possible way — reminding me that movement is supposed to feel good, not just look impressive.

She especially loved savasana. And meditation.

I'd say to her — "shall we do a meditation?" — and she'd run along, bum wiggling, tail wagging, and get herself settled next to me. Ready. Present. Completely in.

The diagnosis

Cushings disease. A mass on her liver — probably cancer.

From diagnosis to passing: six weeks.

Bonnie was never poorly — not in the way you'd expect. She was one of those souls who wouldn't fight the inevitable. She just began, gently, to prepare.

That last night I lay on the floor with her. She lay with me. She put her paw in my hand, looked into my eyes, and I knew.

She was ready.

The vets

I played Asian spa music on my phone on the way. She loved music. It calmed her.

When we arrived I whispered to her — as I always had, as we always did together — "shall we do a meditation, Bonnie?"

And with that — before she was even injected — she lay her head down.

The vet started to cry.

I don't have words for that moment that feel adequate. I'm not sure I need them.

Where she is now

She is buried at the bottom of my garden where I can see her from every angle.

She has a tree stump in the shape of a heart — I know, I know. But there it is. The world sometimes does things like that.

And a beautiful dark pink rose — her favourite colour, Heidi's is yellow — sent by her Aunty Alison and her lovely cousins.

She is there. She is still here.

What Bonnie taught me about healing

I have trained in Traditional Chinese Medicine, yoga therapy, Reiki, reflexology and breathwork. I have read every book, attended every course, built a whole framework around the principles of holistic healing.

And a wirehaired mini dachshund on a kitchen floor taught me more about what healing actually feels like than any of it.

She taught me that purpose matters. That having something that needs you — truly needs you, in the simple, immediate, non-negotiable way that a dog needs you — is one of the most powerful antidepressants available.

She taught me that presence is a practice. That the quality of attention a dog brings to a walk, to a meditation, to a moment of stillness on a mat — is not so different from what we are all trying to cultivate.

She taught me that love fixes things that nothing else can reach.

In TCM the Heart governs connection, joy and the capacity to love and be loved. When the Heart is nourished — truly nourished, not just managed — the whole system begins to rebalance. Energy flows. Pain eases. The will to continue returns.

Bonnie nourished my Heart in the most direct and uncomplicated way possible.

She just showed up. Put her paws on my knees. And stayed.

If you are in your own dark season

If you are reading this from somewhere that feels like where I was in 2020 — isolated, overwhelmed, carrying more than anyone knows — I want you to know something.

The thing that saves you might not look like what you expect.

It might have four paws and a wiggling bum and an opinion about savasana.

But it will come. And when it does — let it fix your heart.

🌙 She Thrives™ — your daily companion through every season:
whitebranches.co.uk/she-thrives

🎯 Find your unique pattern — free quiz:
whitebranches.co.uk/quiz

📞 Book a free Discovery Call:
whitebranches.co.uk/discovery

Suzanne J Lawson is a holistic wellness practitioner, TCM-informed yoga therapist, reflexologist, reiki master and published author. Find free yoga and meditation practices on YouTube at youtube.com/@wellnesstowomb 🌿