The Black Dog Behind the Lead

What happens when the dog trainer is struggling too?

There is something we don't talk about enough in the dog-training world.

We spend an awful lot of time talking about confidence.

Confidence in our methods.

Confidence in our knowledge.

Confidence in our businesses.

Confidence when dealing with difficult dogs and difficult situations.

And yet, behind the scenes, I suspect that far more of us struggle with self-doubt than we'd ever admit.

Everyone struggles sometimes.

The trainer with the packed diary.

The trainer just starting out.

The trainer with twenty years' experience.

The trainer with thousands of followers.

The trainer nobody has heard of yet.

The trainer who seems to have everything figured out.

And me.

We all have days when we wonder whether we're good enough.

The difference is that you generally don't see those days.

The black dog can take over

When the person holding the lead isn't OK

There is something slightly strange about being a dog trainer when you're struggling with your own mental health.

People come to you because they believe you know what you're doing.

They trust you with their dogs.

They tell you about the things they're struggling with.

They ask you what they should do.

And you try to help.

You listen.

You analyse.

You explain.

You reassure.

You remind them that progress isn't linear.

You tell them not to compare their dog to somebody else's.

You tell them that social media isn't reality.

You tell them that one bad day doesn't erase all the good ones.

And then, sometimes, you finish work, put your phone down...

...and realise you don't believe a bloody word of it when it comes to yourself.

Because knowing something intellectually and actually believing it when the black dog is sitting on your shoulders are two very different things.

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Everyone seems to be doing better

This is probably one of the hardest parts.

You open Facebook.

Another trainer has had an amazing month.

Another has announced they've filled all their appointments.

Someone has launched a new course.

Someone has gained another qualification.

Someone's business is booming.

Someone has thousands of followers.

Someone is posting photographs of workshops full of people.

Someone has a waiting list.

Someone has just bought a new van.

Someone is showing off their beautiful new training facility.

Someone's dog-training videos are getting tens of thousands of views.

And you sit there looking at your own business thinking:

"What the hell am I doing wrong?"

You know, logically, that you're seeing a tiny fraction of somebody else's life.

You know people don't post the cancellations.

They don't post the empty diary.

They don't post the days they sat staring at their bank account.

They don't post the training session that went badly.

They don't post the nights they wondered whether any of this was worth it.

They post the wins.

Because that's what social media is built for.

And yet somehow...

We compare our entire life to somebody else's highlight reel.

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The parts we don't post

Here's the thing about comparing ourselves with other people.

We see their wins.

We don't see their worry.

We see the new qualification.

We don't see the months they spent wondering whether they were clever enough to pass.

We see the fully booked diary.

We don't see the cancellations that emptied it two weeks later.

We see the glowing testimonial.

We don't see the client who decided they couldn't afford the training.

We see the beautiful training video.

We don't see the ten attempts it took to get the footage.

We see the successful business.

We don't see the sleepless night wondering whether there's going to be enough money to cover the bills.

We see the confident trainer standing in front of a room full of people.

We don't see them sitting in their car beforehand thinking:

"What if I make a complete arse of this?"

And that's the important bit.

None of us get to see the whole story.

Not theirs.

And not ours.

Because we're all very good at showing the bits we're proud of and hiding the bits we're frightened people might judge.

That's not necessarily dishonest.

It's just human.

And sometimes the person you're looking at thinking "They've got it all together" is looking at somebody else thinking exactly the same thing.

---

And being a trainer doesn't make you immune

This is something I've had to learn the hard way.

Knowing about behaviour doesn't make me immune to emotion.

Knowing about stress doesn't mean I don't get stressed.

Understanding thresholds doesn't mean I never go over mine.

Knowing about trigger stacking doesn't mean I can't have a bloody awful day.

And understanding that behaviour is communication doesn't magically make me better at understanding my own.

I can explain to a client that their dog isn't deliberately being difficult.

I can explain that fear can look like aggression.

I can explain that progress isn't linear.

I can explain that a setback doesn't mean everything has fallen apart.

I can explain that comparison is dangerous.

And then I can spend an evening comparing myself to every other trainer I can find online.

Apparently, knowledge and common sense don't always travel together.

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The imposter has a loud voice

There is a particular form of self-doubt that seems to follow people working in this industry.

Imposter syndrome.

"Am I actually good enough?"

"Do I know enough?"

"What if somebody finds out I don't have all the answers?"

"What if another trainer is better than me?"

"What if I've got this wrong?"

And here's the uncomfortable truth.

Sometimes another trainer is better than me at something.

Of course they are.

There are thousands of trainers.

Some have more experience.

Some have specialist knowledge I don't have.

Some are better communicators.

Some are better at marketing.

Some are better at social media.

Some are better business people.

Some are better at handling particular cases.

That's normal.

Being a good trainer doesn't require me to be the best trainer at everything.

But when you're struggling with depression, that rational thought can disappear surprisingly quickly.

Someone else's success doesn't simply become:

"Good for them."

It becomes:

"Proof that I'm failing."

than:

"I've worked bloody hard this month and I'm still nowhere near where I want to be."

But the second one is probably closer to reality for a lot more of us than we'd like to admit.

The comparison trap

I think dog trainers are particularly vulnerable to this.

Because our industry is full of opinions.

Everyone has a method.

Everyone has a philosophy.

Everyone has an answer.

Everyone seems absolutely certain.

And if you spend enough time online, you'll eventually find yourself wondering whether you're doing anything right.

Too positive.

Not positive enough.

Too soft.

Too harsh.

Too much food.

Not enough food.

Too much management.

Not enough management.

Too much structure.

Not enough freedom.

Wrong equipment.

Wrong terminology.

Wrong qualification.

Wrong breed.

Wrong approach.

Wrong everything.

Eventually you can end up paralysed by the sheer amount of information.

And underneath all of that?

Sometimes there's simply a tired human being thinking:

"I just want to know I'm doing a good job."

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The business makes it worse

Being a dog trainer isn't just about training dogs.

It's a business.

And that means there's another whole layer of pressure.

Marketing.

Social media.

Websites.

SEO.

Accounting.

Insurance.

Fuel.

Vehicle maintenance.

Qualifications.

CPD.

Emails.

WhatsApp messages.

Reports.

Invoices.

Cancellations.

Travel.

Taxes.

Planning.

And, occasionally, actually training a dog.

You can be brilliant at helping dogs and still be rubbish at running a business.

Or brilliant at business and still be learning as a trainer.

They are different skills.

But we often look at somebody who appears to be succeeding and assume they've mastered everything.

We don't see the help they have.

We don't see their circumstances.

We don't see their financial position.

We don't see how long they've been doing it.

We don't see what they started with.

We don't see the things happening behind the scenes.

We just see:

"They're doing better than me."

And sometimes something happens that really brings that home.

Recently, I found a business course specifically aimed at dog trainers. It looked genuinely useful, and I thought, "This could be exactly what I need."

So I went to sign up.

Then I discovered that I didn't qualify because my business turnover is less than £3,000 a month.

I actually had to laugh.

Not because there's anything wrong with the course or the people running it.

It's simply one of those moments where you suddenly realise how differently success can look depending on where you are standing.

If I was making £3,000 a month from Ruff Start, I'd be bloody ecstatic.

I'd probably be telling everyone I knew. Id certenely be handing on my notice to the I need to eat job I have.

Instead, apparently, I'm not making enough to qualify for a course designed to help dog trainers grow their businesses.

And that little moment hit me harder than I expected.

Because when you're already struggling with self-doubt, it's very easy to interpret something like that as:

"I'm not successful enough."

"I'm behind."

"Everyone else is doing better."

"Maybe I'm not cut out for this."

But none of those things necessarily follow.

It simply means I'm at a different point in the journey.

That's it.

Not a failure.

Not a bad trainer.

Not a failed business.

Just a business that is still growing.

And I suspect there are plenty of other trainers who are in exactly the same position but don't talk about it.

Because it's much easier to post:

"Another fully booked month!"

than:

"I've worked bloody hard this month and I'm still nowhere near where I want to be."

But the second one is probably closer to reality for a lot more of us than we'd like to admit.

And then there's the money

This is the bit people don't always want to talk about.

We love dogs.

We want to help people.

But loving dogs doesn't pay the electricity bill.

It doesn't pay for fuel.

It doesn't pay for insurance.

It doesn't replace tyres.

It doesn't pay for the website.

It doesn't cover tax.

And it certainly doesn't put food on the table.

There is nothing greedy about wanting to earn a living from your profession.

And there is nothing wrong with charging appropriately for your time, knowledge and experience.

But when business is slow, the black dog can be very good at turning a financial problem into a personal one.

A quiet diary becomes:

"Nobody wants me."

A cancelled appointment becomes:

"I'm not good enough."

A client choosing somebody cheaper becomes:

"I'm overpriced."

And another trainer getting more work becomes:

"I'm a failure."

They're not the same thing.

But when you're depressed, they can feel exactly the same.

---

I have to remind myself of something

I'm not actually competing with every trainer in the world.

I'm trying to build Ruff Start.

My business.

My approach.

My relationship with the people I work with.

My understanding of dogs.

My experience.

My mistakes.

My successes.

My way of teaching.

And perhaps most importantly...

My reason for doing it.

I didn't get into this because I wanted to become an Instagram celebrity.

I didn't start because I wanted a fancy van and a wall full of certificates.

I started because I genuinely believe we can do better for dogs and their humans.

Especially rescue dogs.

Especially the dogs that have already had a difficult start.

Especially the owners who have left feeling like they've failed.

That's what matters to me.

---

Maybe I'm further along than I think

This is another thing depression makes difficult.

It makes you forget.

You remember every failure.

You remember every awkward conversation.

Every client who didn't book.

Every person who didn't reply.

Every time you got something wrong.

Every day you didn't achieve what you'd planned.

But you forget the dog that improved.

You forget the owner who finally understood what their dog was telling them.

You forget the message saying:

"Thank you. Things are so much better."

You forget the person who told somebody else about you.

You forget the client who came back.

You forget the knowledge you've accumulated.

You forget how much you didn't know when you started.

You forget that you are still here.

Still learning.

Still working.

Still trying.

---

Perhaps that's the important bit

I'm still trying.

Some days that's not particularly impressive.

Some days it's all I've got.

But perhaps we put too much emphasis on looking like we're winning.

Maybe the real measure isn't how many followers you have.

Or how full your diary is.

Or how many qualifications are on your wall.

Or how many people watched your last video.

Maybe it's whether you're still willing to learn.

Whether you can admit when you don't know.

Whether you can change your mind when the evidence changes.

Whether you can look at a difficult case and say:

"I don't know yet."

And then go and learn.

That, to me, is far more valuable than pretending to have all the answers.

---

The black dog doesn't care about your qualifications

You can have years of experience.

You can have qualifications coming out of your ears.

You can understand canine behaviour.

You can teach other people about resilience.

And still have days when getting out of bed feels like an achievement.

The black dog doesn't care.

It doesn't care how many clients you've helped.

It doesn't care how many people think you're good at your job.

It doesn't care what your Facebook page looks like.

It whispers the same things anyway.

You're not good enough.

Everyone else is doing better.

You're falling behind.

You should be doing more.

And sometimes the hardest part isn't making the black dog disappear.

It's learning not to believe everything it tells you.

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So, if you're another trainer reading this...

Maybe you're looking at somebody else's business and wondering why yours doesn't look like that.

Maybe you're wondering whether you're good enough.

Maybe you're struggling financially.

Maybe your diary is quieter than you'd like.

Maybe you've got a qualification you haven't finished.

Maybe you're exhausted.

Maybe you're questioning whether you belong in this industry.

Maybe you're scrolling through social media at midnight wondering how everyone else seems to have figured it all out.

They haven't.

They really haven't.

You're just seeing the bits they're comfortable showing you.

So step away from the bloody phone.

Go and sit with your dog.

Take a breath.

Look at what you've actually achieved.

Then ask yourself a much more useful question than:

"Why am I not where they are?"

Ask:

"Am I further forward than I was?"

If the answer is yes...

That's progress.

---

And if the answer is no?

Then that's OK too.

Sometimes we don't move forward.

Sometimes we go backwards.

Sometimes life knocks us sideways.

Sometimes we need to stop.

Rest.

Reassess.

Ask for help.

And start again.

That's not weakness.

That's being human.

And perhaps that's something we should be talking about more in an industry that spends an awful lot of time telling everyone how to make their dogs better.

Because behind every dog trainer is a human being.

And sometimes...

The human being needs looking after too.

Not because they're broken.

Not because they're failing.

But because none of us ever really stop learning.

Including me.

Especially me.

And if the black dog is walking beside me today, that's OK.

I'll keep walking.

Maybe not as quickly as I'd like.

Maybe not as far as I'd planned.

But I'll keep going.

One dog.

One owner.

One day.

One step at a time.

Ruff Start Dog Training.

Because we're all works in progress.