Practice

It's okay if your brain falls out.

­­­Pants has a great attention span. Surprising, I know—I’ve written about her as a ballistic missile, a bee on a string, and unhinged, so you might not get the picture of her as attentive. But she is—ultra focused on cats, postal workers, crows, rabbits, the weird noise three streets over, squirrels, other dogs, flies, and anything else except her moms on a walk.

Sometimes this is fine, but there are times when I need Pants to have her laser eyes on me.

Sort of like this, but less “I see dead people.”

Like, when the neighbor dog tries to fence fight? I need Pants obeying my recall command, not throwing herself at the fence like she’s invading Mordor. Or when we’re at an off-leash park and there’s a kerfuffle? I want her running towards me, not the melee. Or when a cat comes onto our porch and the window is open—it would be great if she ran to me instead of through the screen. Again.

It’s hard for Pants to pay attention to me when she’s in go mode. Whether it’s fight or flight, prey drive, or excitement, Pants’ critical thinking goes on vacation.

This isn’t just a Pants problem—people struggle with this, too. Have you ever totally blanked what happened in an argument, or forgotten your lines in a speech? When you’re emotionally activated—because of anxiety, panic, anger, or other intense feelings—the part of your brain meant to keep you alive (instinct) has the authority to take offline the slower parts of your brain (critical thinking). This is crucial for your survival.

The part of your brain responsible for thinking, organizing, planning, communicating, and remembering is called the frontal lobe. We love the frontal lobe; it’s part of what makes humans so cool. But here’s the thing—if a lion’s in the room, the frontal lobe’s response is going to look like this: Hmm, would it be better to fight or run away? Let’s see, what can I use as a weap—

Nope, you’re dead, the lion ate your face.

Why yes, your face CAN fit in her mouth! | Birger Strahl, Unsplash

The frontal lobe is just too slow to respond in crisis situations. Which is why fight or flight gets to kick it out of the driver’s seat in said crisis. When fight or flight is in charge, it automatically processes all available information and then takes action, before the frontal lobe can even string two words together. Think about a time you’ve caught a falling object automatically—that’s the instinct I’m talking about.

But there’s a pretty glaring problem with this system. Our brains aren’t exactly stellar at recognizing lions. That work presentation? Not a lion. The argument with your roommate? Not a lion. The panic attack? Feels very much like a lion, but still—not a lion.

Pants thinks our postal worker is a lion. He’s really not. She thinks the cat on the porch is a lion, too. She’s less wrong in this case, but still wrong.

Don’t ask me about this cat unless you have an hour to listen to me gripe.

For her own safety, it’s necessary for Pants to obey me when I recall her in these situations, but her listening brain is offline, just like your thinking brain is offline when your survival brain thinks it’s spotted a lion.

So what are we supposed to do?

Have you ever tried to launch a deep breathing practice in the middle of a panic attack?

I have—it didn’t go well. It didn’t work, so then I felt even more out of control and helpless, and I spiraled even further.

But of course a new coping skill isn’t going to work if you try it for the first time in the middle of a crisis. That’s like trying to play piano for the first time at your recital!

Learning requires a safe, calm, distraction-free environment.

A panic attack is none of these things. Similarly, trying to teach Pants come in a high-stress situation just isn’t going to work.

So here’s what we did instead.

I started by sitting right in front of her on our living room floor when no one else was home. No distractions. We practiced putting her nose in my hand, the touch command, over and over until she was bopping away like a pro.

Then we started practicing in other areas of the house, and then with someone else in the room.

Then the back yard, then sidewalk, then park on a short leash, then a long one, and so on.

I’ve had Pants for three years now, and we still drill recall every single day. And you know what? When the neighbor’s dog hits the fence barking and growling, all I have to do is say, “Touch!” and she’s heading my way. On our walk today, when she saw a German Shepherd she wanted to be friends with (which of course means hitting the end of the leash and yodeling), I used the magic word and she put her nose in my hand, the other dog forgotten. This is because we’ve practiced so much and in so many places that it’s no longer a critical thinking skill—it’s automatic. No matter the situation, she hears the word touch, and she obeys. It’s instinct.

So what does this look like for humans?

Well, let’s start with not doing what I did—trying a new skill in a crisis. Instead, look for that optimal learning environment—calm, quiet, safe, and free from distraction. For Pants, that was our living room. For you, it might be your couch, your bed, your favorite chair, or a bath. Then, practice every day when you’re not stressed. If you’re stressed all the time, choose the least stressed part of your day.

When you feel pretty solid on the skill, try it in a more challenging environment. It will feel hard again, and that’s normal. Even though you’ve been practicing it for a while, think of it like a new skill—you were learning deep breathing in your bedroom in the morning, but now you’re learning deep breathing at work on your lunch break. Different environment, different stress level = different skill.

Each time you feel solid on the skill, up the ante just a hair: rush hour, when your kid wants straight sugar for breakfast, or on the phone with customer service. Only when you’re confident in these areas do you launch the skill during a panic attack, argument, or presentation.

Pants’ execution of touch isn’t perfect. Also on our walk today, a woman was running in the middle of the road with not one, but two Australian shepherds tethered on either side of her. Pants has never seen anything like it, and let me tell you, her brain fell right out. But that’s okay, because perfect isn’t what we’re aiming for. We’re aiming for practice, all the time, so that the skill is second nature for her when we need it—during a dog fight, if she slips her collar, or if she breaks a fourth window screen.

Choose a skill, and practice. Following your breath, pausing before acting, mindfulness, self-compassion—whatever it is.

Practice.