By Sanuthi Herath

Between doomscrolling, burnout, and an overwhelming fear of the future, Gen Z is barely holding it together. And on the other side of the family tree, our grandparents are often tucked into quiet corners of the house, bored, lonely, and wondering if anyone remembers they once ruled kingdoms of their own. Somewhere in the middle of this generational chaos walks in a dog, tail wagging, eyes wide, absolutely no degree in therapy, yet somehow saving everyone anyway.

As a 20-something running a tiny, garden-based dog daycare (which is exactly as chaotic and adorable as it sounds), I’ve seen this happen over and over. Young adults like me, my best friend, and her siblings - people who can’t sleep at night - come alive when a snorty, chubby Labrador sits beside them. Older folks in our neighbourhood who haven’t smiled in days light up when a dog drops a tennis ball at their feet like it’s a precious gem. I didn’t set out to observe emotional transformations. But now I can’t unsee it; dogs are quietly doing more emotional labour than most humans I know.

For Gen Z, It’s Burnout and Bork Bork

Our generation is constantly under pressure. Career expectations, social media anxiety, family drama, and that looming “what am I doing with my life?” spiral that hits at 2 a.m. We’re exhausted. Then a dog trots in, throws itself belly-up on the floor, and demands love like it’s the only currency that matters. And somehow, it is.

There’s a kind of peace in the way dogs live. They remind you to be in the present; just right here, right now. Running away from a slobbering beast or pretending not to see them steal your pizza is a kind of therapy, too.

At my daycare, I’ve seen university students squeal as 70-pound dogs climb them like trees for snuggles. I’ve watched anxious teens (myself included) loosen their grip on panic because a puppy needed a cuddle buddy. It’s healing, quietly, and without fanfare.

For Grandparents, It’s Company and Chaos (In the Best Way)

Older people often face the same emotional struggles as younger ones: isolation, fear, and the sense that no one really sees them. But they’re less likely to scream about it. When a dog enters their space, they suddenly have someone looking at them with complete attention (okay, maybe because they’re holding treats, but still). It matters.

My grandmother, who’s often bedridden and bored in a loud house, transforms into a full-blown stage actress when my dog is around. She narrates her every move like a drama script, complains about her attitude like she’s gossiping about a neighbour, and laughs louder than I’ve ever heard. I’ve seen neighbours, visitors, and even her nurse light u,p too. It’s not just about the barking, it’s about being needed.

Dogs Are the Bridge

What amazes me most is that dogs don’t care about age, titles, or trauma. They just… arrive. They connect Gen Z with our grandparents in a way that’s so simple, it’s poetic. I’ve had real conversations with my grandmother because of our pets. I’ve seen both generations sitting at the vet, quietly bonding over a dog sniffing the air like it’s decoding the universe.

We live in a world that’s fast and disconnected. But dogs slow us down. They make us look. They make us feel. They teach care and patience, things that get lost between exam stress and cholesterol tests.

In a society where therapy is expensive, human connection feels awkward and guarded, and silence is often mistaken for peace, dogs are stepping in as untrained, unpaid emotional support companions. They help us grieve. They help us laugh. They give us something to love. And that, somehow, heals everything just a little.

Dogs don’t cure depression. They don’t solve all the problems life throws at us. They don’t erase pain. But they soften it. And in a world where everyone is doing their best just to make it through the day, that gentle, wagging reminder that you matter might be the most powerful medicine of all.