Mae’s Mission (Part 2): One Year In

Written by Mike Szklanny

It’s been about a year since my last post, and I don’t think I fully appreciated then just how much life could change in that time.

Life with Mae is…normal now.

And I mean that in the best possible way.

One ongoing part of this journey has been learning how — and when — to educate people about what a real service dog actually is. That includes well-meaning strangers, colleagues, and even organizations I’m part of, like the soccer board I sit on. Service dogs aren’t pets, emotional support animals, or mascots. They’re medical equipment with a heartbeat. Mae isn’t there for comfort, attention, or accommodation — she’s there because she performs specific tasks that keep me regulated, present, and safe. Most people mean well, but intent doesn’t replace understanding. These conversations aren’t always easy, but they’re necessary. Advocating for Mae is part of advocating for myself, and it’s a responsibility I take seriously — not just for us, but for every handler who shouldn’t have to justify their need to exist in shared spaces.

The stares don’t register anymore. The awkwardness continues to fade quietly (although still there). The feeling that everyone is watching has been replaced with routine, trust, and familiarity. There was a transition period — there always is — but the deeper our bond grew, the more natural everything became. What once felt new and overwhelming has simply become life.

And honestly, life is better for it.

Since my last post, Mae and I have done a lot of living.

In August, we went to Disney together. Yes, August. It was brutally hot — the kind of heat that makes even the most prepared question their decisions. Mae is darker than dark, and I won’t pretend it wasn’t scary at times. But we adapted. We learned. Cooling vests, cooling collars, training her to wear the gear, managing rest, hydration, and pacing. It was challenging, exhausting, amazing, and absolutely worth it. We came out the other side more confident, more capable, and more connected.

We’ve also gone places I never thought I’d comfortably go again.

Metallica at Lincoln Financial Field.

A massive, loud, high-energy environment — the kind of event I used to avoid entirely. Mae handled it like a professional. Calm, steady, present. We saw Eric Church. We’ve continued traveling, navigating crowds, venues, and long days together. Each trip teaches us something new about each other. Every experience sharpens our trust.

One of the most meaningful and unexpected journeys has been learning how to navigate church together.

Our church has been incredibly welcoming — not just of me, but of Mae as well. Watching her learn how I move, how I settle, how I react emotionally in that space has been remarkable. She reads things I don’t even realize I’m giving away.

A few weeks ago, during a service, a couple of songs were played that had been part of my grandmother’s funeral. I didn’t think I was showing anything outwardly. No tears. No obvious signs. But Mae knew. Without hesitation, she stood up, turned around, and placed her big coconut head right in my lap — and she stayed there. Firm. Unmovable. Grounding me in a way only she can.

Moments like that don’t feel dramatic. They feel steady. Quiet. Certain.

It’s a powerful thing to know that her love and support are always there. That I can count on her without question. That I don’t have to explain, justify, or fight through everything alone anymore. Mae isn’t just part of my life — she’s woven into it.

A year in, I don’t think about what life was like before Mae very often. Not because it didn’t matter, but because this is simply how things are now. And I’m grateful for that. Every day.

Mae and I are still learning. Still growing. Still showing up for each other.

But one year in, I can say this with confidence:

Life with Mae isn’t just manageable. It’s full.