A Dog, Seven Injections and me
The Day I Faced Two of My Biggest Fears
I have been terrified of two things since childhood: dogs and needles.
I don’t remember exactly when the fear of needles started. But my fear of dogs has a very specific story behind it.
I was seven years old.
My family was traveling somewhere, and we stopped along the way to take a break. While the adults were resting and talking, I was happily running around and playing in a nearby field.
A couple of dogs were fighting with each other a little distance away.
I wasn’t paying much attention to them.
Apparently, the feeling was mutual — until one of them noticed me.
I don’t know what made the dog start chasing me. Maybe I was running. Maybe I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But suddenly, I was running for my life.
I remember looking back and seeing the dog getting closer.
I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me.
It wasn’t enough.
The dog caught me and bit me.
Hard.
I can still remember the shock of looking at the wound and seeing a piece of my own flesh in the dog’s mouth.
I was terrified.
My father immediately rushed me to the nearest government hospital.
The doctor examined the wound, stitched it up, and gave me an injection to prevent infection.
And that was only the beginning.
After we returned home, I had to take seven injections in total — one every day.
For a seven-year-old who was already terrified of needles, this was almost as frightening as the dog bite itself.
So, in one unfortunate incident, I had to face both of my biggest fears at the same time.
A dog. And needles.
Yet somehow, life continued.
We continued our trip after the initial treatment. I went back home. I went back to school. Days turned into weeks, and eventually, the wound healed.
But the fear stayed.
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After that incident, I developed what I would call a highly sophisticated dog-detection system.
If there was a dog anywhere within the range of my eyesight, I would immediately change my route.
It didn’t matter if the dog was 10 feet away or 100 feet away.
If I could see it, I was taking the other road.
And things got even more ridiculous.
Sometimes, there wouldn’t even be a dog in front of me. I would suddenly get that strange feeling that a dog was somewhere behind me.
So naturally, I would turn around and check.
And if there actually was a dog?
Congratulations. My sixth sense had just been validated.
At some point, I genuinely started believing that I had developed a “heart-to-heat connection” with dogs — powered entirely by fear.
I didn’t need to see them.
Apparently, my brain had decided:
“Why wait for visual confirmation? Let’s just panic in advance.”
And needles?
I never became friends with them either.
Looking back now, though, I realize something interesting.
At seven, I didn’t have a choice.
I couldn’t negotiate with the dog. I couldn’t tell the doctor that I was too scared for another injection. I couldn’t simply walk away from what had happened.
I was scared — and I still went through it.
What I Learned
Sometimes we think courage means not being afraid.
I don’t think that’s true anymore.
Courage can simply mean being afraid and doing what needs to be done anyway.
That little seven-year-old girl didn’t know anything about courage. She just knew that she was scared, that something painful had happened, and that she had to keep going.
Years later, I still have some fear of dogs and needles.
But whenever I feel afraid of something, I remind myself of that little girl.
She had already survived something that felt enormous to her.
And maybe that’s how we learn to face fear — not by eliminating it, but by surviving it, one experience at a time.
