Dog on a Hill

Hey, if you don't know me, my name is Matthew Raynor. I’m a quadriplegic. I broke my neck in a diving accident six years ago. I have no movement from the collarbone down—my hands don’t work, and my triceps are gone. I’ve got some supination in my wrists, though. But despite all that, I persist. I’d even venture to say I’m happy most days. I’m a writer, a web developer, an active member of the Buddhist community, and a photographer.

Before my accident, I was a commercial fisherman. I worked long stretches offshore doing hard manual labor, saving up enough to travel in the off-season. Those experiences were foundational. They helped shift my mindset from a small-town worldview to something much broader. I’m proud of how far I’ve come.

One year, I traveled to Ecuador and ended up in a jungle town called Tena. There wasn’t much there. I stayed in a local Kichwa village—Kichwa being a native South American people. It was one of those rare, grounding experiences I’ll never forget. The older generation didn’t wear shoes. They spoke a language distinct from Spanish and were incredibly kind.

One day, I took public transit into town—probably for groceries. The store had almost nothing in it. You could find some weird no-name mozzarella-string cheese, some meat I wouldn’t dare eat, and that was about it. I remember being astounded. The biggest surprise? No coffee. Even though the countryside was full of coffee farms, there wasn’t a single bag on the shelf. Turns out it was more profitable to export it to America than sell it locally. The bare-bones store was the result of import challenges, the exchange rate, and the remote location.

It made me realize how much we take for granted in the United States. If we really want something here, we can probably get it. In the jungle? Even if you have money, that doesn’t guarantee anything.

But grocery stores and coffee aren’t the reason I’m writing this.

After my shopping trip, I walked back down the hill to catch the bus. I got on and was staring out the window when I saw this dog at the top of the hill. It was limping. As it got closer, I could see one of its legs was completely mangled—totally useless. But the dog wasn’t panicking. It wasn’t anxious or afraid. It was just... calm.

If you know dogs like I do, you know they have emotions. You can *see* them. When they’re sad, anxious, angry—you know. But this dog wasn’t trapped in some future-based anxiety loop the way people get. It wasn’t consumed by fear over how its broken leg was going to affect its ability to work, pay rent, or survive the week.

It had accepted what was. Its leg was broken—and wherever it was headed next, it went there calmly, as if that was exactly where it needed to go.

That moment stuck with me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it—how different its reaction was from mine, or from most of ours. What would it look like to meet pain that way?

Because reflecting on it now—considering my own history, my struggles with depression, anxiety, addiction, self-hatred, self-esteem issues—I can’t help but admire that dog. We all have broken parts. Most of us try to avoid them. We mask them, deny them, bury them. We pretend they don’t exist so we can be seen the way we *want* to be seen.

But that’s not acceptance. And it’s definitely not self-love.

That avoidance leads to profound suffering—unnecessary suffering. If we could just see through the lies we tell ourselves, we could put it down. We could be free.

So I want to ask you:

What parts of yourself are broken? Can you identify them? And more importantly—can you accept them, like that dog accepted its broken leg?

And maybe even more than that:

What truths are you hiding from? Are your efforts to escape helping in any way?

Because if you could find real acceptance—deep, grounded acceptance—could you finally feel free?

I believe that’s the work. That’s the path. It’s not easy, but it’s real. And when you start living with that kind of honesty—when you stop running from yourself—you become powerful. Not in a flashy way, but in a quiet, unshakable way.

And from that place, real change begins.