Knowing When You’re Done

This morning I let Rossi off leash. She chased squirrels until she was done. Then she walked over to an oak tree and splooted in the shade, legs stretched out behind her.

When an animal is finished, it stops. We don’t interpret that as quitting. We don’t assume there is avoidance at play. We simply trust the signal.

What stands out is how natural that trust feels with other beings. Rossi didn’t encourage herself to keep going. She didn’t tell herself that growth happens outside the comfort zone. She didn’t need to.

With people, it’s different. Stopping often requires justification. Relief raises suspicion. Endurance carries moral weight.

Discomfort becomes a directive instead of a signal, as if the presence of strain automatically means something must be pushed through.

That can be true, but it isn’t absolute, despite how many slogans we’ve adopted about going harder and not being a quitter.

Not all discomfort feels the same. Some effort sharpens and resolves. Other discomfort spreads, lingers, and quietly depletes.

From the outside, stepping back can look like opting out. Internally, something else often happens. Attention returns. Capacity shows up somewhere unexpected. Life doesn’t shrink — it reorganizes.

Avoidance feels different. Quieter at first, maybe — an internal “phew.” But the tension doesn’t leave. It waits.

Why aren’t we allowed to know when we’re done? Why does stopping need to be explained? Why does trusting our own signals feel harder than trusting a dog splooting under a tree?

It looks simple in other beings. And strangely complicated in us.