Bringing Freya home wasn’t the “happily ever after” you see in rescue stories. The truth is, life was falling apart for reasons that had nothing to do with her. Everything I knew seemed to be crashing down around me, and by December, things were so heavy that we left our home state behind and moved to Florida, searching for a fresh start.

During that time, Freya still struggled to be around the other animals. The house felt tense and uncertain, but the real storm was inside me. There were days when getting out of bed felt impossible. I wanted to disappear, to shut everything out.

Through it all, Freya wouldn’t leave my side. She stuck close—day and night—offering silent company when nothing else could reach me.

Even in my lowest moments, Freya gave me a reason to keep going. Sometimes, it was just the smallest things—feeding her, making sure everyone’s basic needs were met.

For a couple of months, that was our quiet routine: surviving together, one day at a time. In those heavy days, Freya became more than a rescue dog. She was my anchor—a steady, gentle presence when I needed it most.

Our move to Florida was supposed to be a fresh start, but it didn’t feel that way. On our very first day, my parents came to visit, bringing their tiny dog, Murphy. In the chaos of settling in, Freya slipped past us as we tried to get her into her crate and made a beeline for Murphy. It was terrifying—for my parents, for me, for everyone in the room. Thankfully, Murphy wasn’t hurt, but the fear and stress lingered.

For my parents, it was too much. Their worry for Murphy—and for any other dog Freya might meet—was overwhelming. They told me Freya needed to go, that she needed a new home. Hearing those words broke me. I was already struggling, barely holding it together, and Freya was the one bright spot I had—the thread keeping my soul from unraveling completely.

Even as everything around me felt uncertain, Freya was my constant. Letting her go wasn’t something I could imagine. She was my lifeline, my reason to keep moving forward.

I wrestled with myself, torn between what everyone was telling me and what my heart knew. I pleaded for another way—anything that didn’t mean giving up on Freya. Eventually, we landed on a compromise: a board-and-train program. The idea was that maybe, after some training, she could find a new home and a fresh start—somewhere else.

We found a trainer who promised to “fix” Freya, to make her the “perfect,” obedient dog. There was even a warranty. At the time, it sounded like exactly what we needed. I didn’t know any better about training methods or what truly humane, effective dog training looked like. This trainer used e-collars, prong collars, and force—tools and techniques I would never choose now, but back then, I just wanted to believe things could get better.

So, I sent Freya off to boot camp. It would be years before I learned just how harmful and abusive that experience really was—for her, and for so many other dogs. But that’s a story for another day.

Freya was gone for over a month. Every time we thought we’d get her back, the trainer pushed the pick-up date further, insisting she still “needed more help.” Her strong will and natural prey drive, he said, needed more… suppressing.

Looking back, I want to be clear: I don’t judge anyone who’s turned to these training methods. I’ve been there, desperate and just trying to do right by my dog.

But if there’s one thing I’ll always tell people now, it’s this—know exactly who you’re sending your dog to, and what really happens behind closed doors.

This place wasn’t just using harsh methods. It was far worse—truly abusive. Eight years later, the owner was arrested after the deaths of two dogs, and former staff came forward with stories of years of cruelty and neglect.

Freya survived, but I carry the weight of what she went through. If sharing our story saves even one dog or one guardian from that kind of pain, it’s worth it.