This Time, I’m Running for Me

This is not my first time standing in front of a panel of judges and asking them to see who I am.

In 2012, I held the title of Rocky Mountain Leather SIR. That year, I traveled to San Francisco to compete for the international title alongside my then-husband, who was representing our region as Rocky Mountain Leather boy. We prepared and traveled together, then entered the experience as a couple. It was a happy period of my life, and at the time, it felt natural that something so significant would belong to both of us.

I did well in the contest. I placed third internationally, which should have been an incredible moment for me. I had represented my region on that stage and shown the judges what I had to offer. Among an exceptionally talented group of contestants, I had earned a place near the top.

But I do not remember celebrating very much.

My husband did not place as well as he had hoped, and his disappointment quickly became the most important thing in the room. I fell into the role that had become familiar to me. I focused on making sure he was okay and softened my own excitement because I did not want my success to make his disappointment hurt more. Instead of allowing myself to feel proud, I made myself smaller so there would be more room for what he was feeling.

I do not say that to make him the villain of the story. He was hurting, and I loved him. Caring for him was something I chose to do. But I can look back now and recognize what that moment represented. My accomplishments often became secondary when someone else needed something from me. My joy could always be postponed, and my moment could always wait.

Except sometimes, when you keep postponing a moment, you never actually get it back.

I could tell people that I placed third at an international leather contest. I could put it into a biography and recognize it intellectually as an accomplishment. But I do not think I ever fully allowed myself to feel what it meant. I never really got to stand still inside that victory and say, “I did this. I am proud of myself.”

Fourteen years later, I am preparing to compete again.

This time, I am not running for a leather title. I am running for Georgia Pup. I am not the same person I was in 2012, and I am not trying to recreate that experience or correct something from the past. This contest is not revenge against an old memory. It is not an attempt to prove that I should have won something different all those years ago.

It is an opportunity to show up differently.

This time, I am running for me.

Of course, I would love to win. I would be lying if I said the idea of being named Georgia Pup did not excite me. I believe in the platform I have built and in the kind of service I could offer while holding the title.

But winning is not the only way this experience can be successful.

Success is walking into the room as Ruff without apologizing for how much space he takes up. It means letting the judges and my peers see the playful, ridiculous, passionate pup that I spent years rediscovering. I do not need to make myself quieter or easier to understand in order to deserve a place there.

Success is allowing myself to be proud of the work I have already done. It means remembering the classes I have taught and the people I have welcomed, along with the conversations and connections that grew from simply showing up. The contest does not create that work, nor does it stop once the titles have been awarded. Whether or not I leave with a title, I will keep doing what brought me here.

Success is finishing each portion of the weekend and letting myself celebrate it. I do not want to immediately search for what went wrong or scan the room to see whether someone else needs me to shrink my happiness. I want my experience to belong to me.

This time, I want to remember the applause.

I want to remember the laughter when the Chaos Corgi causes exactly the kind of trouble everyone should have expected. I want to remember what it feels like to speak honestly in front of the judges about why this matters to me. When I look around the room, I want to see the people who helped me recover parts of myself I once thought were gone.

Most importantly, I want to remember how it felt to choose myself.

That does not mean I arrived at this moment alone.

My Alpha, Kuma, is crossing an ocean to be there with me. He is traveling from London to Atlanta and joining me for a weekend that matters deeply to me. I am incredibly proud to call him my Alpha, and I do not take lightly what it means to have someone willing to travel that far simply to support me.

His presence does not make this any less something I am doing for myself. It helps me understand the difference between being supported and being responsible for someone else’s experience. Kuma is not coming so I can manage his emotions or measure my success through him. He is coming because he believes in me and wants to witness me step onto that stage as Ruff.

But this journey began long before I submitted a contest application, and Kuma is not the only person who helped me reach this point.

NITRO, Dodger, Dante, Koda, Phin, Surge, Bane, Ceej, and countless others helped me discover Ruff and become the person standing here today. Their importance has very little to do with contest preparation. They made space for me while I was learning who Ruff was and helped me believe that my joy did not need an apology.

Some offered friendship when I needed it most. Others showed me what connection and chosen family could look like. They listened when life felt heavy, laughed with me when I needed to be ridiculous, and gave Ruff room to become louder and more fully himself.

There are names I am certainly forgetting, but their impact is still part of this story. Ruff was not rediscovered in isolation. He emerged through shared experiences and friendships that made it feel safe to stop hiding.

They helped me reach a happiness I once wondered whether I would ever feel again.

That is what I carry into this contest. It is not merely advice or encouragement to win. I carry the love of people who helped me become whole enough to stand on that stage as myself.

Choosing myself does not require shutting everyone else out. I can stand on my own while honoring the people who helped me find my footing.

There is something profoundly meaningful about knowing I can run for myself without having to run by myself.

In 2012, I competed as one half of a couple, and my experience became tangled in someone else’s disappointment. In 2026, I am stepping onto the stage as my own pup, surrounded by people who want me to celebrate whatever happens.

Kuma will cross an ocean to stand beside me. Some of my pack will be in the room, while others will be supporting me from farther away. None of them are carrying my sense of worth for me. They are showing me that love does not require the diminishment of joy.

The right people do not ask us to make ourselves smaller. They make room for our joy and remind us that it belongs to us.

In 2012, I entered the contest as one half of a couple, and my own accomplishment became secondary. In 2026, I am stepping onto the stage as Ruff, supported by people I love but no longer disappearing into anyone else’s experience.

Ruff is not a costume I created for a contest. He is not a performance that disappears when the hood comes off. He is the part of me that still believes joy is worth chasing and that silliness can carry meaning. He is the version of me who finally gets to stop being responsible for everyone else’s experience.

I did not create Ruff. I rediscovered him.

Soon, I get to introduce him to the judges, my peers, and everyone gathered for Georgia Pup. I get to show them what I have learned and what I hope to contribute. I will take the stage knowing that I have already done something the person I was in 2012 struggled to do.

I have given myself permission to celebrate.

Whatever happens when the results are announced, I want to leave knowing that I showed up fully. I do not want to abandon my joy or minimize what I accomplished. I will not make myself smaller for anyone else.

Winning would be wonderful.

But this time, the victory begins before I ever step onto the stage.

This time, I am running for me.