Hansie is Not a Substitute

Hansie is my dog.

On a sports field, a substitute steps in out of necessity. No matter their potential, on that given day, they remain a step behind the original choice.

We live with substitutes every day. When the film we wanted is sold out, we choose another. When an evening by the sea is no longer possible, we find another way to spend it. Real plants become bonsai; bonsai become plastic leaves. We make these trades so often that we hardly notice them any more.

Sometimes, we make them with emotions too. A quiet house can feel different when children are grown and gone, or when they were never there to begin with. Many bring home a dog — a gentle response to an ache, an unspoken need for connection, a little companionship.

The same thing can be an original for one person and a substitute for another. One person swims because the water calls to them. Another swims because there is nothing else to do. The act is the same; the meaning is not.

Perhaps that is the clarity we owe ourselves: if something is only a substitute, and the original is still within reach, do not confuse settling with contentment. But when the original is truly unreachable, let the longing go. Embrace what is present, not as a consolation, but as its own truth.

Some things arrive not to fill a vacancy, but to occupy a space that was always theirs.

Hansie sees me with absolute clarity. I am not filling a void in his world, nor is he filling one in mine. We found each other. That is the whole truth of it.

Neither of us is a second choice.

Neither of us is a substitute.