09/10/2026
THE HARDEST ANNOUNCEMENT I HAVE EVER HAD TO MAKE
I have started and deleted this post more times than I can count. Maybe because once I put these words into writing, they become real.
After nearly two decades of rescue, and after almost ten years of building Rescuers Without Borders into what it is today, I have made the decision to begin the process of bringing Rescuers Without Borders to a responsible close.
Even typing that hurts. 💔
But I owe everyone who has supported us—and most importantly, every animal who depends on me—the truth about why.
There isn't one reason.
There are four.
1. My health.
2. Lack of physical help.
3. Lack of homes.
4. Lack of sustainable funding.
Together, they have created a situation I can no longer overcome by simply working harder.
For years, that was my answer to everything.
Not enough help? I worked more.
Not enough money? I stayed awake fundraising.
A dog wasn't adopted? They stayed here, and I cared for them.
Another emergency? I figured it out.
Another animal with nowhere to go? Somehow, I made room.
I kept believing that if I worked hard enough, sacrificed enough and refused to quit, I could keep everything going.
And I did.
For a very, very long time.
But eventually, the human body collects the debt.
Mine has.
Right now, I weigh 82 pounds.
There is no polite way to describe what that looks like. I am skin and bones. I have lost an enormous amount of weight and muscle. There is very little left on my body to lose, and I am nowhere near recovered.
For almost ten years, I have asked my body to do things no human body was designed to sustain indefinitely.
I have worked through sickness.
I have worked after surgeries.
I have worked through grief.
I have worked without days off.
I have slept a few hours and gotten back up because dogs needed me. I have pushed through exhaustion because there was nobody else to do the work.
And every time my body whispered that it couldn't keep doing this, I answered:
You have to.
Until eventually, it stopped whispering.
This is no longer about being tired.
This is no longer about needing a vacation.
This is no longer something I can fix by sleeping an extra hour or taking a weekend off.
My body is failing under the life I have required it to live. And I need people to understand the seriousness of what that means.
If I am forced to continue operating this rescue in the same way I have for almost ten years—carrying the physical workload, caring for dozens of high-needs animals, trying to raise thousands of dollars every month, sleeping too little and constantly pushing my body beyond what it can give—there will eventually be nothing left of me to push.
My body will give out completely.
And if that happens, I won't simply lose the rescue.
These dogs will lose me.
My husband will lose me.
My family will lose me.
I will no longer be here.
Those are incredibly difficult words for me to write. But pretending this situation is less serious than it is would be dishonest.
I spent years believing that sacrificing myself for the animals was proof of how deeply I loved them.
Now I have to accept something much harder:
If keeping the rescue alive requires me to die doing it, then the rescue is no longer sustainable.
That doesn't mean the dogs stop mattering.
It means I have to matter too.
And that is why these changes are no longer optional.
They are necessary.
Rescuers Without Borders cannot continue operating the way it has.
Intake is closed.
It will remain closed.
But I want to be extremely clear about what "closing" means.
It does NOT mean that tomorrow I turn off the lights and walk away from the dogs who are here.
I could never do that.
It means we stop the cycle.
We stop replacing every dog who leaves with another dog who desperately needs somewhere to go.
We focus entirely on the lives already entrusted to us.
We will continue looking for appropriate permanent homes for the dogs who can and should be adopted.
But I will not start shuffling elderly, medically fragile, hospice, disabled or long-term sanctuary dogs into temporary placements simply to make our numbers decrease faster.
Some of these dogs have been here for years.
Some have been here close to a decade.
For them, this isn't a temporary stop anymore.
This is home.
They know these rooms.
They know these yards.
They know their routines.
They know us.
Moving a dog simply for the sake of moving a dog isn't necessarily rescue.
Every decision still has to answer the same question:
What is best for this dog?
For some, the answer will be adoption.
For others, the answer may be staying right here.
And I made them a promise.
Closing the rescue does not mean I magically get to break that promise.
Instead, we are going to allow this sanctuary to complete the job it started.
Our seniors will be allowed to finish growing old.
Our medical dogs will continue receiving care.
And I will carry our hospice dogs to the end with dignity and love.
And when a kennel becomes empty...
It will stay empty.
When a room becomes empty...
It will stay empty.
There will be no next emergency filling that space.
No desperate message convincing me that this one is different.
No "just one more."
Little by little, the sanctuary will become smaller.
And eventually, it will become empty.
Not because we abandoned them.
Because we finished the promises we made to them.
I don't know how long that process will take.
And that brings me to another reality people need to understand:
Closing intake does not close the bills.
The dogs who are here today still need everything they needed yesterday.
The bare minimum operating cost here is approximately $8,800 every month.
Utilities for our three shelter buildings alone have been running between $1,300 and $1,600 a month.
Dog food has been approximately $3,865 a month.
Then there are medications, prescription diets, veterinary care, cleaning supplies, laundry supplies, maintenance and everything else required to care for these dogs.
Those bills don't disappear because we aren't taking another dog.
The electric company doesn't care that the dogs NEED it to survive.
The dogs don't stop eating because people are tired of fundraisers.
Medication doesn't become optional because the money isn't there.
And while I have been doing the physical work required to care for the dogs, I have also been responsible for finding the money to pay for it.
When rotations were finished, I fundraised.
When laundry was finished, I fundraised.
When everyone was fed and medicated, I fundraised.
When everyone else went to bed, I fundraised.
Then I slept for maybe two hours and started again.
Go...
Go...
Go...
Until eventually, the person everyone depended on couldn't keep going.
And that is where we are.
So although Rescuers Without Borders is beginning the process of closing, our need for help has not ended.
If anything, this is when I need our village most.
I need people willing to sponsor the dogs who will remain here.
I need reliable physical help. If that means hiring someone, please, please donate toward making that possible.
I need people willing to share our dogs and our story.
And the dogs need financial support so they can continue receiving everything they need while I try to recover.
I cannot continue being the sole physical and financial safety net beneath this many lives.
That is not failure.
That is reality.
And this isn't happening only here.
Rescues across this country are saying the same things.
They're exhausted.
They're financially drowning.
They're closing intake.
They're downsizing.
They're closing completely.
And every time one closes, the animals don't disappear.
There is simply one less person standing there to catch them.
This is not how I imagined this chapter ending.
There was a time when the thought of an empty sanctuary would have broken my heart.
Now I am beginning to see it differently.
Someday, I may walk through these buildings and hear silence.
There may be no medications lined up.
No wagging tails.
No laundry waiting.
No bowls to fill.
No dog waiting behind the next door.
And when that day comes, I don't want to look around and think:
We failed.
I want to look around and know:
We finished.
Every dog who could find a home found one.
Every dog who couldn't was given one here.
Every senior was allowed to grow old.
Every medical dog received the care we could give.
Every hospice dog was carried all the way home.
And every promise I made was honored.
I will always be a rescuer.
Nothing can erase the animals saved across the USA.
Nothing can erase the dogs brought home from Turkey.
Nothing can erase the medical cases given another chance.
The paralyzed dogs who learned a new way to live.
The seniors who finally knew safety.
The frightened dogs who learned to trust.
The hundreds who walked out of our gates with families of their own.
Or the ones who took their final breath in my arms knowing that, at the very end, somebody stayed.
That work mattered.
It still matters.
But my responsibility now is different.
My responsibility is to the dogs already here.
To the promises already made.
To my husband and my family.
And finally...
To making sure there is enough of me left to keep those promises.
Before I finish this, there is something I need to say.
THANK YOU.
To every single person who followed this journey...
Every donor who helped us pay a veterinary bill, fill a food bowl, purchase medication, keep the lights on or answer an emergency plea.
Every transporter who drove miles—sometimes hundreds or thousands of them—to get one of our dogs safely to the next stop.
Every foster who opened their home.
Every adopter who looked at one of our dogs and said, "You're coming home with me."
Every person who shared a post, sent supplies, sponsored a dog, prayed for us, celebrated an adoption, mourned a loss with us, or simply continued showing up...
You were part of this.
There is no Rescuers Without Borders story without all of you.
There are hundreds of animals whose lives turned out differently because complete strangers decided their lives mattered.
"Thank you" will never feel big enough for that.
And there are eight women I need to personally thank.
Lauren.
Brianna.
Ayse.
Nancy.
Shannon.
Janie.
Amy.
Elisha.
Some of you were here on day one.
Some of you came somewhere along the journey.
Some adopted.
Some fostered.
Some transported.
And many of you took on responsibilities far beyond any of those things—serving as Adoption Directors, Foster Directors, Transport Directors and Executive Directors.
You answered messages.
You helped solve problems.
You searched for homes.
You coordinated fosters.
You arranged transports.
You celebrated the victories and stood beside me through losses that absolutely broke us.
You gave these dogs your time, your homes, your vehicles, your hearts and sometimes your sanity. 😂
Most importantly...
You gave them your all.
There are dogs sleeping in homes tonight because of you.
There are dogs who crossed states because of you.
There are dogs who crossed an ocean and eventually found their families because of you.
And there are dogs who simply got another chance because somewhere behind the scenes, one of you refused to give up on them.
I hope each of you understands that when I talk about everything Rescuers Without Borders accomplished, your fingerprints are all over that story too.
I could never have done every piece of this alone.
And I will never be able to thank you enough for the pieces you carried.
So as this organization begins its final chapter, I need you to know something:
I will never forget who stood beside these dogs.
To Lauren, Brianna, Ayse, Nancy, Shannon, Janie, Amy and Elisha...
From the deepest part of my heart—
Thank you for believing in the mission.
Thank you for believing in these dogs.
Thank you for believing in me.
And thank you for helping Rescuers Without Borders become something far bigger than any one of us could have built alone.
Whatever happens next, we will always share one extraordinary thing:
We were there.
We did the work.
We saved the lives.
And damn, ladies...
We saved a lot of them. ❤️🐾
And now, together, we finish what we started.
So this isn't goodbye.
There are still stories to tell.
There are still dogs to care for.
There are still adoptions to celebrate.
There are still old souls whose hands I intend to hold all the way home.
But the cycle ends here.
No more replacing the ones who leave.
One dog at a time.
One empty bed at a time.
One promise fulfilled at a time.
Until one day, Rescuers Without Borders has finished the work already inside its gates.
And when that day comes, I hope I can stand inside an empty sanctuary and know one thing with absolute certainty:
We didn't abandon them.
We didn't break our promises.
We didn't walk away.
We stayed until the last one left. ❤️🐾
