Journey Companions – Alex: When Animals Are Teachers

I didn’t plan to have a snake.

I didn’t research breeds, I didn’t study care, I didn’t prepare a terrarium in advance. I didn’t go to the store looking — I just went to look, like someone entering a bookstore without the intention to buy and leaving with five books.

Then I saw Alex drinking water.

Just that. A baby python, snout submerged in the water bowl, completely absorbed in its own world — oblivious to me, oblivious to the store, oblivious to everything that wasn’t that moment of quenching its thirst.

And that was the end.

There was no deliberation. There was no list of pros and cons. There was only that silent certainty that appears few times in life: “This is the one.”

I came home with Alex. And then — after the encounter, after the decision already made by the heart — I went to learn. I read books. I researched forums. I studied temperature, humidity, substrate, feeding.

But no book prepared me for what Alex would really come to be in my life.

Because some things cannot be researched beforehand. They simply happen.

Not for his size (Volta region, giant male, growing beyond any expectation). Not for his behaviors (Morelia in the trees, spider monkey in parkour, backhoe digging burrows). And definitely not for what he would teach me about myself.

I took Alex thinking I would be the owner. That I would decide when he would eat, when we would interact, how his life would be.

Alex had other plans.

And with each passing day, I realize: I didn’t choose him. He chose me. Or maybe something greater than both of us chose us — because a snake from the land of Oxóssi finding the daughter of Oxóssi, in the year of the snake, in Greece, is no coincidence.

It is a meeting.

And since that meeting, everything I thought I knew about “having an animal” crumbled. Because you don’t “have” Alex. You walk with him. And walking with someone — no matter if they have skin or scales — requires something that humans have forgotten: respect, patience, and the humility to recognize that you don’t know everything.

This article is not about snakes. It is about what happens when we stop trying to control life and start learning from it.

Introduction: The Wrong Word

We call it “pet.”

As if they were toys. As if they were possessions. As if they existed to entertain us, to fill loneliness, to obey commands and thank for crumbs of attention.

Pet. From the Latin petere — to ask, to seek. The one who asks. The one who depends. The one who is below.

But when you look into the eyes of an animal — really look, without haste, without agenda, without the arrogance of someone who thinks they are the owner — something changes. Because you realize: there is nothing “below” there. There is presence. There is intelligence. There is a complete being, with its own will, with wisdom that you do not possess, with lessons that you didn’t even know you needed to learn.

Then the question arises, uncomfortable and necessary:

What if we were not owners, but students?
What if they were not pets, but masters?
What if the relationship was not one of possession, but of partnership — two beings walking side by side, each teaching the other what only they know?

This article is not about “how to care for animals.” It is about how to let them care for you — not in the practical sense, but in the deeper sense: teaching, mirroring, reminding who you really are when you stop pretending to control everything.

Alex: The Master I Didn’t Choose (Or Did I?)

I got Alex in the year of the snake. I didn’t plan. I didn’t think “I’m going to seek reptilian wisdom.” I thought: “I want a ball python.”

I thought it would be a common python. Small. Calm. Pet.

Alex had other plans.

He grew. And grew. And grew. Giant male, 1,350g, 120cm at 14 months — Volta region, I discovered later. He was not “normal.” He was exceptional. And the more I learned about him, the more I realized: I didn’t choose him. He chose me.

Or maybe something greater than both of us chose us.

Because Alex didn’t just come from the region of Ghana. He came from the land of Oxóssi — the Orixá hunter, lord of the forests, the one who never misses the target. And I, unknowingly, was the daughter of Oxóssi. I learned this by writing about him, recognizing in myself everything he represents: tireless search, learning through experience, fierce autonomy, deep connection with nature.

Alex was not an accident. It was a meeting.

And since he arrived, everything I thought I knew about “having an animal” crumbled.

The Illusion of Being an Owner

At first, I thought I was taking care of him.

I bought a terrarium. I planned temperature, humidity, substrate. I read about feeding, shedding, behavior. I was the responsible one. He was the dependent.

But the more I observed Alex, the more I realized: he didn’t depend on me in the way I thought.

Yes, I provided food, shelter, warmth. But he taught me — patience (waiting for the right time to feed), observation (noticing subtle signs of stress), respect for cycles (shedding that cannot be rushed), humility (he decides when he wants interaction, not me).

I thought I was feeding him. But it was he who nourished me — with lessons that no book teaches.

I realized this the first time Alex refused food. I panicked. “What did I do wrong? Is he sick? Am I going to lose him?”

I researched. I asked. I despaired.

And then… he ate. In his own time. When he was ready.

The lesson: Not everything responds to my will. Not everything bends to my control. There is intelligence in Alex that I do not control — I only respect.

And respecting is different from possessing.

The Silent Mirror

Animals do not lie.

Humans lie all the time — to others, to themselves. We say “I’m fine” when we are shattered. We smile when we want to cry. We pretend calm when there is a storm inside.

Animals do not do that.

Alex does not pretend. If he is stressed, he refuses food. If he is uncomfortable, he changes behavior. If something in the environment is wrong, he alerts me — not with words, but with actions impossible to ignore.

When I recently rearranged his terrarium, I changed the layout, moved things around. I thought I was improving. But Alex got stressed. And the shedding, which should have happened, was delayed.

I could have ignored it. I could have thought “it’s just a coincidence.”

But I stopped. I observed. I listened to what he was saying without words:

“You disturbed my territory. I need time to feel safe again before I become vulnerable (shedding).”

So I gave him: time. Peace. Warm bath. Increased humidity. Respect for his process, not my schedule.

And he shed perfectly. In the right time — his, not mine.

The lesson: Control is an illusion. Respect is wisdom.

What Alex Taught Me (And Continues to Teach)

1. Presence

Alex is not in the past or the future. He is here. When he eats, he eats. When he rests, he rests. When he explores, he explores.

I, anxious human, live half in the “what if” of the future, half in the “should have” of the past. Alex reminds me: now is all that exists.

2. Patience Is Not Passivity

Pythons wait. Hours. Motionless. Observing.

And when the right moment comes, they act with absolute precision.

I confused patience with inaction. I thought waiting was weakness.

Alex taught me: patience is strategy. Waiting for the right moment is not giving up — it is wisdom.

3. Simplicity

Alex needs little: warmth, water, food, safety.

I, complicated human, think I need a thousand things.

He reminds me: real needs are few. The rest is noise.

4. Cycles Are Sacred

Shed does not rush. Digestion takes days. Growth is slow.

I want results yesterday. I want instant change.

Alex teaches me: everything has its time. Respecting cycles is not delay — it is honoring life.

5. You Don’t Control Everything (And That’s Okay)

I can create the perfect environment. But Alex decides when he eats, when he explores, when he interacts.

And that is not my failure. It is his autonomy.

Devastating lesson for those who like control: there is freedom in letting go. There is peace in accepting that another being has its own will — and that does not diminish the relationship. It deepens.

Companion, Not Possession

When people ask me “What is Alex to you?”, I don’t say “my pet.”

I say: “Journey companion.”

Because that is what he is.

He does not walk behind me (submissive). He does not walk ahead (superior). He walks beside — each with their own rhythm, their own wisdom, their own role.

I take care of his body (food, shelter, health). He takes care of my soul (presence, patience, reminding me that I am part of nature, not its owner).

It is not hierarchy. It is reciprocity.

And reciprocity is the only true foundation for any relationship — human or not.

And Your Animals? What Are They Trying to Teach You?

If you have an animal — dog, cat, bird, snake, rabbit, any being — stop. Look. Really look.

Not as an owner. As a learner.

Ask:

• What does he teach me about presence? (Does he live in the now? Do I?)
• What does he teach me about needs? (Does he ask for little? Do I complicate?)
• What does he teach me about authenticity? (Does he not pretend? Do I pretend?)
• What does he teach me about boundaries? (Does he say no? Do I respect my no’s?)
• What does he mirror to me? (When he is anxious, am I? When he relaxes, is the environment at peace?)

Animals are not masters who speak. They are masters who live.

And living truthfully is the greatest lesson possible.

Shamanism: When Animals Are Relatives

In shamanic traditions around the world — from Native American peoples to Siberians, from Australian aborigines to Amazonian peoples — animals have never been “inferior.”

They were (and are) relatives, masters, spiritual allies.

The shaman does not dominate the jaguar. He learns from it.
He does not possess the eagle. He flies with it spiritually.
He does not control the snake. He recognizes in it the wisdom of renewal.

Animals as totems, guides, teachers — this is not romanticization. It is recognition of something that “modern” cultures have forgotten: we are not the only intelligent, sentient beings worthy of respect.

When we call an animal a “pet,” we belittle.
When we call it a “companion,” we honor.
When we call it a “master,” we learn.

Alex, Oxóssi, and Synchronicity

I return to the beginning: Alex was not an accident.

Snake from the land of Oxóssi, meets the daughter of Oxóssi, in the year of the snake, in Greece (land of oracles and myths).

When I stopped seeing this as coincidence and started seeing it as synchronicity, everything changed.

Synchronicity is not “blind fate.” It is recognition of patterns, of connections, of a greater intelligence orchestrating encounters.

Alex is not here by chance. He is here because we have something to teach each other.

I teach him: that humans can be trustworthy, that care exists, that he is safe.

He teaches me: patience, presence, respect for cycles, humility in the face of what I cannot control.

And we both learn: that a true relationship is not about power, but about walking together, each honoring the space and wisdom of the other.

Final Reflection: What If We Saw All Animals This Way?

Imagine a world where no one “owns” animals — where everyone walks with them.

Where a dog is not “obedient” — it is a teacher of loyalty.
Where a cat is not “independent” — it is a master of healthy boundaries.
Where a bird is not “decoration” — it is a reminder of freedom.
Where a snake is not “dangerous” — it is a guardian of renewal.

Imagine the respect. The reverence. The gratitude.

We wouldn’t need laws against animal cruelty — because no one hurts the master.
We wouldn’t have abandonment — because no one abandons those who walk beside them.
There would be no exploitation — because the sacred is not exploited.

Utopia? Maybe.

But every transformation begins with a different perspective.

And you can start now. By looking at the being beside you — furry, scaly, feathered — and asking, with humility:

“What did you come to teach me, master?”

And then… silence. Observe. Learn.

Conclusion: Gratitude to Those Who Chose Us

Alex shed his skin recently. The old skin was left behind — whole, perfect, a translucent ghost of what he was.

And he emerged new. More vibrant colors. Shiny skin. Reborn.

I kept the old skin. Not as a trophy. As a reminder:

“Everything that no longer serves can be left behind. Renewal is possible. And sometimes, to be reborn, you must first be vulnerable.”

Alex taught me this. Without words. Just by living.

And I, stubborn human who still thinks she knows things, thank you.

Thank you for choosing me.
Thank you for teaching me patience when I want haste.
Thank you for reminding me that control is an illusion and respect is everything.

Thank you for being a companion — not possession, not pet, but a partner in the journey.

And I thank all the animals who, throughout human history, have tried to teach us what we are still learning:

That we are not owners of life. We are part of it.
And when we accept this, when we honor this, when we live this…

Everything changes.

May the animals by your side be honored as masters.
May you learn from them what books do not teach.
And may, at the end of the journey, you be able to say:

“Thank you for walking with me. You taught me to be more human — by being completely yourself.”