Proof of Purchase

For two decades, I put Reiki in the same box as my childhood imaginary friend. A cute idea, but let’s be real, right? I was all in on alternative healing, but Reiki? 

For whatever reason, that was my line in the sand. It felt a little too… floaty. Too “woo-woo.”  I’d honestly never even looked into it, but the moment it came up, I could feel this massive, internal eye-roll happening in my soul. Hard pass.

Then, a couple of years ago, the universe, in its infinite and sarcastic wisdom, gave me a shove. A big one. And in a moment of what I can only describe as divinely-inspired madness, I decided to start studying the one thing I’d sworn I’d never touch. (You can read all about that piece of my journey here). 

About a month in, after my first attunement, I was… not feeling it. Practicing on myself wasn't showing me much, and I was seriously questioning if I had just paid a bunch of money to learn how to wave my hands around in a weird way. I was in this awkward, doubt-filled purgatory, wondering if my “energy subscription” was even activated. 

And that’s when the universe decided to hand me my “Proof of Purchase.”

The Diagnosis That Sounded Like a Cartoon Injury

My world is run by a pack of animals. Two of them are my dogs, Keira and Moses. Keira, a feisty little heeler mix, was four at the time and had the personality of a tiny, furry tornado. Zero self-preservation, a mouth that could get her into international trouble, and a full-time job of tormenting her big brother. If you know heelers, you get it.

Then, she started to… power down. It was subtle at first. A lag on our walks. A quiet refusal to play. She just looked… miserable. Then came the sound that still makes my blood run cold: a high-pitched, wheezing whistle every time she jumped on the bed.

I spent a week playing detective, poking and prodding her legs. A sprain? A cactus spine? (This is Arizona, after all). But she’s a tough little thing, and she wasn’t giving me anything. So, off to the vet we went. The vet did the same dance, came up with nothing, and sent us home with meds and the classic “keep an eye on her” speech.

And it got worse. Exponentially worse. Over the next two weeks, she stopped trying to jump up. Our walks had all but discontinued, only meandering down the trail a few hundred feet, and only a couple of times a week. She’d lie in her bed, sleepy from the meds, and look at me with eyes jthst told me she was in a lot of pain. The toys sat untouched. The back door, once her launchpad for chasing imaginary squirrels, remained unopened.

The moment that shattered me? I came home to a block of cream cheese on the edge of the counter. An easy snatch for her, a guaranteed crime of opportunity. It stopped me in my tracks, i gasped in disbelief. My heart didn’t just break; it imploded. The sight of that stupid, delicious snack sitting there, safe and sound, was a gut punch. Back to the vet.

The X-rays were a horror show. My vet, trying to keep her composure, pointed to Keira’s lower spine, a cloudy mess of arthritis she said was decades beyond her age. Then, she pointed to the hip bones. “It looks like Swiss cheese,” she said. The bone was just… dissolving. The dark spots in the radiograph did not lie: her hips bones had massive deterioration. The plan was a grim cocktail: Gabapentin, Carprofen, and weekly Ketamine shots. “We’ll start here,” she said, but her eyes told a different story. This was bad. This was really, really bad.

The Stroller of Shame and a Whisper of a Chance

Our adventures were our thing. Not going out on the daily was killing all of our spirits. So, I bought a dog stroller. I felt a piece of my soul die as I strapped her into that mesh prison. I’d push my little wild child while Moses, her partner in crime, tore through the woods like a furry missile. I’d look at Keira’s face, her spirit just crushed, and then I’d look at my hands. The hands that were supposed to be learning how to heal.

My Reiki instructor had said it from the beginning: “Well, here is your first client.” But I was terrified. I felt like a total fraud. What if I made it worse? What if the “energy” wasn’t even plugged in? But watching her suffer in that stroller? That was much worse than feeling silly. I was willing to try anyting.

So I started. Tiny sessions, multiple times a day. I’d place my hands on her, half-expecting a cosmic dial tone, half-praying for a miracle. And then… something happened. I could feel it. And so could she. Her eyes would go wide, she’d lick my palms with fervor, and then she’d just… surrender. Let the energy flow. It was the first spark of hope I’d felt in months.

The “Fuck It” Moment That Changed Everything

By February, Keira was off all her daily meds. The stroller was gathering dust in the Jeep. She was jumping on the couch again. She was back to her old tricks, tormenting her brother and barking at nothing. She was… back.

We were still doing the weekly Ketamine shots. It was my safety net. My security blanket. I was too scared to let it go. I didn’t even know what the ketamine was for, if I’m being honest. I was in such a dark place when the vet prescribed it, I just nodded and paid.

Then, at the beginning of February, I had to skip a shot. I spent that whole next week watching her like a hawk, waiting for any signs of a regression. But it never came. She was fine. I let it ride another week. Still fine. Still getting better.

I had a "Come to Jesus" moment. A real, raw, "what exactly are we even doing here?" conversation with myself. Do I go back to the ketamine, or do I trust this? Do I really, truly see if this Reiki thing is real?

I decided to let go of the branch. It was time to go all in.

We never went back for another shot. I kept up with the Reiki. And Keira didn’t just survive; she thrived. The stroller was officially retired. She was stealing snacks off the counter again. She was a blur of fur and joy in the forest. It was so dramatic, I started to question my own memory. Was it really that bad? I still pull out the radiographs sometimes, just to remind myself that the “Swiss cheese” was real.

The Prognosis vs. The Reality: A Vet’s “WHAT?!” Moment

By May, I was sitting with a question that had been quietly gnawing at me for months. I still didn't fully understand what the ketamine had been doing. It was the one loose thread I couldn't let go of, the one thing that kept me from fully owning what I had witnessed. Was ketamine supposed to eliminate arthritis? Grow back bone? I didn't think so, but I hadn't asked, and I hadn't looked into it. I had been in such a dark place when the vet prescribed it that I just nodded, trusted her, and ran with it. It was time to actually know.

So I called her. I asked, as casually as I could manage, what the ketamine had been doing for Keira. She told me plainly: it was for pain relief. That was it. No miracles. No bone regeneration. Just pain management. 

My heart was pounding. I had spent months in this quiet back-and-forth with myself, not sure whether to credit the Reiki or the medication. And just like that, I had my answer.

I kept the Reiki out of the conversation for now. Instead, I asked her what the long-term picture looked like. What did she see for Keira's life going forward?

Her words were a death sentence. “Erin, I’m just going to be real honest with you. Keira’s physiology is a nightmare. She has more arthritis than I’ve ever seen in a dog her age. She’s in a boatload of pain. Her bones will continue to deteriorate. She’ll be on pain meds for the rest of her life, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you have to euthanize her prematurely due to how much pain she's in.”

As she said this, I was in the woods, watching my “physiological nightmare” launch herself over a fallen log, a whirlwind of pure, unadulterated joy. No meds. No pain. Just… life.

I took a deep breath. “Well,” I said, a smile spreading across my face, “I actually started studying Reiki a few months ago. I’ve been treating her at home. She’s been off all meds for months, and I’m currently watching her sprint through the forest, chasing her brother like the crazy little girl she is.”

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. Then, a single word, a shriek that could have shattered glass: “WHAT?!”

My Receipt from the Universe

That was my receipt. My undeniable, emotional, universe-stamped proof of purchase. Ketamine doesn’t rebuild bone. It doesn’t erase arthritis. She was on pain meds, and now she’s not. And she’s thriving. A year later, she’s still my wild, crazy, counter-surfing, log-jumping miracle.

We’re back to our two-mile daily adventures. My heart doesn’t just swell when I watch her run; it explodes. For her life. For this gift. For the experience that slammed the door on my skepticism forever.

I don't have to share Reiki with her very often anymore, but she still asks for it sometimes. She’ll curl up next to me, roll over, and give me that goofy, crooked smile. “Please, momma, give me some loooove.” Of course, she gets all the Reiki she wants.

I didn't know what the expect, that moment the universe pushed me onto this path of Reiki. I had no idea what I was getting into, and there were a lot of times I thought maybe i had just gone a little more mad thanI already was.  What I can say is that I've experienced a lot of magic, and I've witnessed a bunch of miracle, and this one is definitely my favorite. 

If you're a skeptic, like I was for so long, I totally get it. This invisible, energetic, quantum-level stuff is weird.

But if you’re looking for your own "proof," I invite you to see what happens when you stop looking at the X-rays and start looking at the energy.

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