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When I was a child, I used to get ill quite often. On those days, while my friends were at school, I stayed at my grandparents’ house, wrapped in blankets, watching TV, feeling miserable in that specific way only children with a fever can. But I was never alone: My grandparents’ dog, Flora, would quietly sit beside me, her head resting on my lap as if she understood exactly what I needed. Somehow, I always felt better.

A few years ago, I went through a traumatic event, the repercussions of which rippled out into what I hope to call the worst year of my life. And while that time is now behind me, and life has once again gone back to normal, there is one side effect that still casts a shadow over my life. It feels like I hear people talking about triggers all the time, about being aware and sensitive. But I rarely see anything that resembles an understanding of what I experience when I say I