The Weeds Know
How My Dog Found Her Own Medicine and What Might Be Growing in Your Yard Too
We are taught that weeds are something we need to pull, get rid of, wipe out, destroy.
But what if that’s a lie.
A bit of a backstory:
My dog, Layla, started developing this lingering, dry, unproductive coughing hack. At first, I didn’t know what to make of it.
It could be a few things, I thought, physically or energetically:
A lingering irritation in the upper respiratory tract (dust, hair, post-nasal drip, minor esophageal inflammation)
Lymphatic stagnation in the throat/jaw region (especially with her age and history of freeze responses)
Or… maybe something deeper
Layla was rescued from an abusive situation before she came to me. Her early years were filled with neglect and fear. And sometimes, hacking like this? It’s not just physical. It can be a stored trauma reflex, like the body trying to clear something unspoken, something that was never allowed to come out.
We’ll get to weeds/herbs in a sec, but the way we respond to our dogs helps us unlock answers.
“Just breathe, Layla.”
There was one night her cough started getting more intense, more frequent, and more desperate. But, because I know that science, ancestral wisdom, and woo woo all intertwine, I knew I couldn’t panic. That would only make things worse, as energy transfers, and dogs can not only feel but take on our emotions.
She needed to know she was safe. And I needed to be the one to show her.
“Just breathe, Layla.” I said as I knelt beside her bed.
I wasn’t telling her to stop. It wasn’t a command, and it wasn’t control.
Instead, I physically lowered myself beside her, not above her, and gave her an external vagal cue, in a language her body could recognize.
I learned this from a hydrotherapist while taking my former dog Zoey to aquatic massage, a few years ago. He told me:
“Whoever has the slowest breath… regulates the space.”
So, I slowed my breathing, and sure enough, it worked.
She didn’t just hear my voice.
She settled. She sighed. She stopped hacking.
She borrowed my rhythm and stopped panicky hacking, as if she finally realized that evening, “Wait… I’m not stuck.”
It wasn’t magic.
It was spirit meeting structure.
It was the nervous system recognizing safety and letting go.
The next morning, something wild happened.
I took Layla outside so we could take in the morning sun and do some grounding. We needed the reset.
She wandered a bit… then settled herself right in the middle of a patch of tiny little purple-blue flowers.
I hadn’t noticed them before. But they were everywhere now. Discreet, low to the ground, soft.
I flipped open my wildflower field guide and confirmed what I suspected:
Veronica persica.
Also called Persian Speedwell.
Also called: exactly what she needed.
The very plant Layla chose to lay in is known to:
Clear heat and phlegm from the lungs
Move stuck mucus
Soothe throat inflammation
Support gentle respiratory drainage
She walked straight into the arms of a wild plant that helps when the body doesn’t know how to let go.
And she laid down right in the middle of it.
That isn’t coincidence.
That’s instinct + intelligence + intercession.
So what exactly is Speedwell?
In folk medicine, its cooling, calming, and especially helpful for dry or irritating coughs.
It also supports the lymph and skin; two systems that often flare when the lungs are working overtime.
It grows quietly. Not flashy. And it’s no coincidence it popped up in abundance in my backyard.
It’s almost as if the Creator sends what we need before we know we need it and provides it 10-fold.
But we’re taught to kill what was sent to heal.
Most people mow it down. Poison it. Rip it out.
But it grows back. Not because it’s stubborn, but because it’s faithful.
What if God knew exactly what ailments might show up this spring… and told the soil, “Grow this one again. They’ll need her.”
How I supported Layla from there:
I infused Persian Speedwell into an oil blend I’m saving for topical use.
I’ve started adding it to her herbal teas, which she drinks without hesitation.
She’s older, and she had teeth pulled before I adopted her, so I stopped giving her raw chicken feet (which she used to scarf down too fast), and instead started simmering them into chicken foot bone broth to preserve the glucosamine and joint-supportive nutrients. While those simmer, I add a handful of herbs; Speedwell now included.
Alongside that, I give her:
Chia seed gel (mucosal coating + lymph support)
Marshmallow root, slippery elm, mullein leaf
And a raw food diet I can fully control for quality
She’s not being “treated.”
She’s being supported.
Let me say this as clearly as I can:
Sometimes, the medicine you’re praying for doesn’t come in a box.
It comes in a bloom so small you almost miss it.
It grows exactly where you are. In your backyard. In your own grass.
And it waits for you to remember that it’s not the intruder, but it might be the answer.
If you’re seeing something wild pop up over and over in your yard:
Stop calling it a weed.
Look it up.
Ask your body what it might be trying to say.
Because what’s growing outside your door might be the very thing your gut, your lungs, your liver, or even your dog, has been trying to process for months.
Plants don’t just show up.
They return.
Because healing doesn’t have to be hunted for.
Sometimes, it finds you.
Stay tuned. This is the first post in a mini-series where I’ll be sharing what I find growing right outside my door and how it connects to healing, remembrance, and reclaiming what we were told to destroy.
Have something mysterious growing in your yard? I’d love to hear about it! Comment below or send me a photo. Let’s re-learn what the land’s been trying to tell us all along.
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