This past week, I found myself building a fort. Not a metaphorical one, not an emotional one, not even one of those psychological defense mechanisms we shrinky types love to analyze. A literal, couch-based, throw-blanket-and-pillow kind of fort.

Why? Because my tiny ten-pound dachshund has a back issue and suddenly needed a plush fortress to protect him from the perils of leaping, twisting, and general doggy bravado. And in the process of engineering this orthopedic bastion, something clicked.

I remembered how much I loved forts.

Not just as a kid (though I was a prolific blanket architect), but as a teenager when the world felt chaotic and I needed a secret space. In college, forts were a way to make an impersonal dorm room feel like a cozy den. Even post-college, when adulting was starting to wrap its heavy coat around me, I’d occasionally find myself crawling under a makeshift canopy of comfort.

And then, no more forts.

Enter: my son. The next generation of fort-builder. I cheered him on. We made forts out of sheets, cardboard boxes, couch cushions—the works. I crawled in with him sometimes, soaking in that magical sense of adventure and safety. But now? He’s a teenager. His version of a fortress is a locked bedroom door, a hoodie, and AirPods in both ears. Forts? Please. So cringe, Mom.

So now, here I am. Back on the dog couch. Back to forts.

Only this time, it’s to protect my fur baby from the harsh world (and by harsh world I mean jumping off the sofa like he’s Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible). But as I sit inside this grown-up fort, wedged between a heating pad and a concerned few dogs, I realize: the need for a fort never really leaves us.

Forts are about comfort. Protection. Reclaiming a bit of magic and privacy in a world that constantly demands we be open, accessible, and TikTok-ready. And whether you’re building one for a kid, a pup, or your own fraying nerves, forts remind us of something essential: we all need a soft place to land.

So yes, the circle of life has brought me back to fort duty. But I’m not mad about it. It’s warm in here. It smells faintly of peanut butter treats and chicken. And honestly? I might just stay in this fort a while longer.

Because sometimes, in protecting someone else’s little spine, you accidentally find your own again.