I stood outside the horse corral at the farm exhibit, another adoring groupie among hundreds of people who had visited that day. I was an uprooted sophomore college student living in a city with way too much traffic. I’d left my own horse behind with a new owner two and a half years earlier so I could attend school.
It was a late summer evening painted with a rosy alpine glow that drenched the mountains to the east. On the far side of the enclosure, a Belgian draft horse relaxed with a hind hoof cocked and a lowered head, flicking his ears to dislodge the occasional bug.
The big horse’s lips drooped as he dozed. He’d likely been carting people around in front of a wagon at some point earlier that day. He was certainly no longer impressed by admirers expecting him to interact. But there I was, admiring anyway. I couldn’t help myself. It had been far too long since I’d been near a horse. It felt like forever.
I lingered for a while, content to enjoy the nearness of the gelding’s comforting bulk. After a few minutes, he shifted. He stretched his nose in my direction and shuffled his dinner-plate hooves to the fence line.
I held my palms flat as he approached and pushed his prickly, strong lips into my fingers. He breathed a sigh and relaxed his posture. I quietly ran my fingers over and around his broad muzzle. Then I raised my hand to his neck and felt his toffee-apple-colored coat.
On my way home, I cupped my dirty hands around my nose and mouth repeatedly to breathe in the smell of horse that clung to my grimy skin. (I had purposely skipped the handwashing station as I left the exhibit.) I couldn’t stop smiling.
Those few moments of attention from a seasoned petting zoo horse who had no obligation to interact with me felt like a rare gift. His warm, wholesome smell rushed into a part of me that was even hungrier than I’d realized. That scent was familiar and soothing, but it was more than that.
Holding the smell of horse in my palms was like finding a favorite keepsake that I hadn’t fully realized was lost. It felt like climbing into my own familiar bed after a long, exhausting trip. I felt re-energized and more whole than I’d been before. It was a sensation horses have always triggered in me.
When I’d re-homed my own horse, I knew I would still love horses, but I didn’t have any strong connections with a training program or horse community to come back to. I thought I would have to change and adapt, leave that part of myself behind, and grow up. I believed I wasn’t a rider anymore. I let my dreams go, and I didn’t see another option.
Encountering horses or horse people afterward was wonderful, yet I felt like an outsider, and it made me ache inside. I fantasized about getting involved again. It was another ten years before I finally took the steps to do so. By then, I had a husband and two children, and my seven-year-old daughter wanted to learn to ride.
At my daughter’s first lesson, I sat by the rail as she trotted around on a wonderful old schoolmaster gelding. On the other side of the arena, two teen riders took turns jumping a three-foot fence on a couple of lovely warmbloods. I couldn’t stop watching.
Each time their horses left the ground, I was filled with an intense, electric envy I’ll never forget. It made me squirm in my chair. I wanted to do that—desperately. I realized it was time to let my inner horse girl out again.
Six years later, I have a horse of my own, and my daughters lease a school horse. We all love to compete, and funding three riders’ hopes and dreams—even at our non-rated, local level—is a big commitment. The stress of board payments, vet bills, and show fees sometimes feels like a monster hiding under my bed.
But, when the stress gets overwhelming, I remind myself to pat that monster on the head and be grateful he’s there at all. I know this lifestyle is a privilege, and I know circumstances frequently prevent horse people from being involved as much as they want to be. I understand that I could be in that position again at some point down the road. It’s important to feel grateful for what I have and never take it for granted, even as I work to reach my next milestone.
The memory of that Belgian at the farm exhibit reminds me that regardless of what happens in the future, I’ve learned one truth I won’t lose again: I know I’m a horse person and will stay one even if I have to stop riding again someday. I’ve given myself permission to belong to the equestrian community, regardless of my riding resume, my accomplishments, or my connections.
Horses always have—and likely always will—fill me up in a unique and beautiful way. It’s a part of me that I’ll often be redefining even as it remains fundamentally constant. That’s a gift, even when it’s a complicated one, and I plan to cherish it.
If you have a story about how horses or horse people have improved your life, please consider sharing!
