I told my husband I wanted to check on the horses; some neighbors were shooting off fireworks, and I wanted to make sure the horses weren’t bothered. 

But the real reason for my post-midnight barn visit was that I needed a few minutes to myself as the year turned. I needed some quiet. Some time to reflect. 

I love looking back at the year that has passed, remembering highs and lows, considering the coulda-done-betters, grieving the inevitable losses, and filing for the future the lessons learned.

I also love setting New Year’s resolutions, focusing on the habits or practices that deserve more attention in the coming year: more riding, more resting, more writing, more screen-free quality time with my husband and son. A folder on my laptop contains lists that go back more than a decade: goals for myself, set January after January.

But as 2025 drew to a close, I had little time for reflection. 

In early December, while moving a fridge with a friend, my husband ripped his quadriceps tendon from his patella. Surgery followed a week later—holes drilled in bone, and the tendon stitched back through—and his full recovery seems as far away as the horizon.

My husband has spent the past month frustratingly incapacitated on our couch. I, in that time, have been singlehandedly manning a 4-year-old son, a full-time job, a nine-horse barn, and all the chaos that accompanies the holidays, including hosting dinner for a dozen on Christmas Eve. There’s been little time for breathing, let alone reflecting on 2025 and setting intentions for 2026.

As we welcome in this new year, I realized recently, we will also welcome in the Year of the Horse with the Lunar New Year in February. (You’ve seen the memes, haven’t you, about how we should hope it’s a bay gelding over a chestnut mare, or how we’d better longe it first?) 

Perhaps this knowledge, too, was pulling me to the barn in the early hours of this new year. I needed a few quiet minutes with my herd. 

In our lesson program, we ask our riders to pay attention to their mounts, both on the ground and in the saddle. We encourage them to learn equine body language and to listen and respond when their horses try to communicate. There’s a lot to learn, we remind our students, when we really tune in to our horses. 

But too often, as the one doing the teaching, I forget that I, too, could benefit from the learning.

As I made my way down the aisle in the wee hours of Jan. 1, handing out treats and rubbing fuzzy faces, I considered what I might learn from my horses. Their value, as schoolies, comes not from fancy movements or trophy collections or impressive bloodlines, but from entirely from their innate ability to teach. What, I wondered, could I learn here, from my friends?

So as I welcomed in this new year of the horse, with my horses, I decided I’d let some of them serve as guides for how I might approach the year ahead. 

Liffey’s Resolution: Make Time For Connection

Liffey, my gray OTTB mare, is our barn greeter and the most social horse in our herd. She’s in the first stall and one of the few whose stall-guard privileges remain; if someone enters the barn, she’s sticking out her head to say hello. (And I dare you to ignore her; she’ll throw a full-on tantrum until she gets your attention.)

We’re on daytime turnout now, so the horses are generally coming in from the field around dinner time. Most of my horses march down the aisle and directly into their stalls, hoping to be met with their evening meal.

But not Lif. Her field is behind the barn, so she has to traverse the whole aisle to reach her stall. And as she does so, she stops at each stall to say hi to her friends. She sniffs at Gypsy until Gypsy gets annoyed and nips at her, she flirts with Moose (who is totally in love with her), and she nuzzles Waffles, her very best friend. 

She’s not in a rush to get home. She makes time to connect with others, knowing those she loves add immeasurable value to her life. 

I’m busy by nature and thrive on a packed schedule. But between a full-time job with a long commute, a full barn and a preschooler with no off button, it’s a rare treat to meet a friend for dinner or coffee or a hike. When I do make time, though, the people I love always more than fill my cup. 

May I follow Liffey’s lead and make more time for my family and friends so that 2026 brings me more of these vital connections, too.

Waffles’ Resolution: Stop Expecting The Worst

Waffles came to us in his late teens after retiring from a long and successful jumping career. He transitioned to his new, step-down lesson-horse job like the absolute professional that he is, aside from occasionally jumping a ground pole as if it were a 3’ oxer with elaborate fill. 

Under saddle his trot was rhythmic and floaty, his canter like a rocking horse, his lead-changes automatic. In short, he was the perfect teacher of contact and collection. On the ground, his manners are impeccable, though he’ll occasionally give students a run for their money if he’s not ready to come in from the field. 

When he was 21, he pulled a check ligament, which we slowly but successfully rehabbed. Then at age 24, he tore his deep digital flexor tendon in his right front. Because of his near-perfect nature, both under saddle and on the ground, we made plans with our vet to rehab this injury, too, and threw everything but the kitchen sink at this very best boy: ice, stall rest, shockwave therapies, platelet-rich-plasma, and even some trial medications and therapies that our vet asked Waffles to guinea-pig.

After months of stall rest, he progressed to hand-walking, still gentlemanly despite being cooped up. He never acted up, and eventually students took turns walking him before or after lessons, where they’d delight in Waffles’ interest in nuzzling the barn cats.

But then we noticed a new swelling, lower down that injured leg: Somehow, on stall rest, Waffles had torn his suspensory. My vet, ultrasound wand in hand, delivered the news with tears in her eyes. 

My brain, when presented with just about any scenario, likes to imagine the worst possible outcome. Someone hands me their baby, and my brain envisions dropping it. My husband is late coming home and obviously, my brain argues, he’s dead on the side of the road.

So learning this news about our beloved schoolie, I immediately went worst-case: After all this, I thought, we were going to have to put him down. 

My vet, who is also a cherished friend, said that if she were in my shoes, she’d rest him a few more weeks and then slowly start to turn him out to pasture. He’d been trapped in his stall for so long. Perhaps with zero expectations, she suggested, we’d see if he could hold up just being a pasture puff.

If he was hurting, there was our answer, she said. We’d set a date to end his suffering. But maybe, she thought, he’d be pasture-sound and able to enjoy some time outside with his friends. 

A few weeks later, stomach in my throat, I led Waffles to the back field lecturing him on the life and death importance of maintaining his sanity. Liffey, his best bud, was out there already, munching hay. I let him loose. Waffles’ head snapped up when he realized that, for the first time in months, he was free. 

He trotted a few steps, sniffed the grass, then dropped to the ground for a lengthy roll, grinding his head in the warm dirt and flipping from one side to the other, then back again, grunting with just how good it all felt. He hopped to his feet, let out a few happy bucks, then settled in to snack beside his friend.  

It’s been months now, and there’s not the slightest hitch in Waffles’ giddy-up. What started as limited turnout with his one, safe friend has turned into full days outside with his little herd. He’s sound. He’s happy. And it feels like a little miracle. 

I’ll try—like Waffles—to live in the moment in the year ahead, instead of worrying constantly about when the next shoe is going to drop. I’ll try to control what I can, like leaving him inside, for example, on days when the fields freeze into sheets of ice. And I’ll try to let go of the things I can’t, focusing instead what’s true in the present: the joy, for example, of a happy, old horse in the field with his friends. 

Gypsy’s Resolution: Set Boundaries And Stand Up For Yourself 

Gypsy is 12 hands tall, with a black, velvety coat and a perfect little white star on her dainty little face—a miniature Black Beauty who, since arriving at our farm in early 2018, has always been a barn favorite. 

She’s the first horse most young riders learn to lead or groom or saddle. She’s the first one most swing a leg over in the arena; the first horse they learn to stop or steer. If you kinda-but-not-right ask her to walk or trot or turn, she will. She forgives our young, new riders and grants them nearly endless patience. 

This kindness, however, she leaves behind at the pasture gate.

In the field, Gypsy is in charge, despite the 6—or 8 or 10—inches that all of her companions have on her. If one of them eyeballs the pile of hay she deems “hers,” she’ll bare her teeth and run them off. If someone enters her personal space without an invitation, she turns her hindquarters in warning. 

Rarely does she make contact with her frenemies. Rarely does she draw blood. She doesn’t need to. She sets boundaries for herself—don’t eat my hay and get out of my space—and then she stands up for herself when those boundaries are crossed. 

I am no Gypsy. Conflict makes me squirm, and I’ll generally choose personal discomfort over upsetting someone else. But as I get older, I admire the Gypsies I know, whether four legged or two. In 2026, may I set a few more boundaries to protect my own peace. And may I find the strength and courage to stand up for myself a little more this year, too. 

As we step forward into this new year, and as we welcome in the Year of the Horse, may we all continue to learn from our equine partners. 

And may the year bring us—literally or metaphorically—many clear rounds, picturesque trails, quiet hours in the barn, and moments of connection that sustain us throughout the year. 

Sarah K. Susa is the owner of Black Dog Stables just north of Pittsburgh, where she resides with her husband and young son. She has a B.A. in English and Creative Writing from Allegheny College and an M.Ed. from The University of Pennsylvania. She teaches high school English full-time, teaches riding lessons and facilitates educational programs at Black Dog Stables, and has no idea what you mean by the concept of free time.  

The post This Year Of The Horse, The Equines Make The Resolutions appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

During the summer of 2023, I started every day in a pair of breeches. 

It didn’t matter if it was 90 degrees outside with 100% humidity. It didn’t matter what other tasks had to be completed or what errands had to be run. It didn’t matter if three dozen kids were en route to the barn for summer camp, or if it was a Sunday and the farm would be quiet. The deal I made with myself—after more than two years of very limited saddle time—was that once those breeches were on, I couldn’t take them off until my backside spent some time in the saddle.

Occasionally my ride would happen early in the day. Other times I’d ride after summer camp ended and my toddler went down for a nap, with the baby monitor at full volume and tucked into the thigh pocket of my breeches. Often I rode well after dark, when the temperature was cooler, after my son was tucked in for the night and the barn was quiet. But no matter when I rode, or whether that ride was schooling a lesson horse, working my OTTB, or puttering bareback on the trail that loops our property, the effect was the same: I left the barn feeling a little lighter, a little calmer, a little more peaceful, a little more patient. Every ride brought me back to myself. 

Perhaps some context here would be helpful. I’m 41 years old. I live with my husband and 2-year-old son on a 10-acre property in southwestern Pennsylvania that we’ve been fixing up since we bought it six years ago. We have eight horses and—with incredible colleagues who feel like family—operate an equestrian program geared toward beginning riders: year-round riding lessons, horsemanship clinics, camps and other educational programs. I’m also a high school teacher, so summers off from my “real job,” when I can spend all day at the farm, are precious. 

During the school year, and especially since pregnancy and having my son, there just aren’t enough hours in the day. And no matter where I choose to devote those precious hours, there’s always guilt. If I come home from school and spend the evening digging in the sandbox with my son, I feel guilty when I catch a glimpse of my mare in the field who needs saddle time: Why do you even have a green horse if you’re not going to make the time for her? 

If I leave my son with my husband to sneak in a ride, I rush to get back to my house and my family, feeling guilty for even more time away: You were already away from him nine hours today. He’ll only be this little for so long! 

If I tuck my son in and ride before bed, there’s guilt for missing out on the only child-free time my husband and I could have that day: It’s hard to reconnect if you’re at the barn, Sarah…

And as a barn owner, there’s added guilt there, too, because there’s always something eyeballing from the shadows. You’re riding when there’s tack that needs cleaned? An aisle that needs swept? E-mails that need answered or receipts that need filed? You think you have the time for something as unnecessary, as frivolous, as fun, as riding? 

It feels, sometimes, like there’s no just no way to win. Balance, for us equestrians, seems so out of reach. 

I don’t write this for sympathy. I know my situation is not out of the ordinary. 

Most of us horse owners are alike—though our individual situations may differ greatly—in the fact that it is not easy to own a horse. With increasing costs of everything, whether you board your horse or keep them at home, having horses is a more of a luxury than ever. 

You’re shoveling poop and flinging feed at your boarding stable to reduce your monthly board? I see you. You’re side-hustling to pay vet bills? I see you. You’re a mama of little ones wondering whether you should take a break from horses because you just can’t seem to do it all? I see you.

I see us.

When school started up again in the fall of 2023 and I had to trade my breeches for work clothes, my daily rides disappeared. 

Back to work, autumn found me more irritated with my husband, less patient with my son. My barn time, again, became rushed. I taught lessons after school, threw feed at the horses, then rushed to the house to spend time with my son before bed. Or on nights where I wasn’t instructing, I’d play with my son but spend no time at the barn. Even on weekends, obligations and to-do lists regularly trumped riding time. 

I’ve been burning the candle at both ends and making no time for myself, and I’m just about burnt out.

But last week, during our holiday break from lessons, our barn’s head instructor, barn manager, and I made plans to ride. For fun. One rode one of our best lesson horses for a training ride, the other rode our young Fjord she’s been working with, and I hopped on a horse we’re fostering for a local rescue for his first time under saddle with us. We chatted, we laughed, we rode and watched each other, and it was the nicest two hours I’ve had at the barn since the summertime. 

So my New Year’s resolution for me—and for any of you who need to hear this, too—is to put on the breeches. I often regret time not spent in the saddle, but I’ve never regretted the rides I did take. 

So here’s to more rides this year. Happy New Year!

Sarah K. Susa is the owner of Black Dog Stables just north of Pittsburgh, where she resides with her husband and young son. She has a B.A. in English and Creative Writing from Allegheny College and an M.Ed. from The University of Pennsylvania. She teaches high school English full-time, teaches riding lessons and facilitates educational programs at Black Dog Stables, and has no idea what you mean by the concept of free time.

The post A New Year’s Resolution: Put On The Breeches appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

We are in a crappy situation. What we thought was finally my teen daughter’s heart horse, so lovely in every single way, turned out to be unsuitable for the job we intended.

And I have a lot of frustration and sadness about this. Not just at those involved in selling her to me, but at myself. Instead of following my gut and everything I’ve learned over the years—watch my back, be less trusting—I made a quick decision. I wanted so badly to believe this time would be different. This time I could trust.

My intentions were so pure, truly. We’ve been trying so hard to afford a horse my daughter could chase her dreams with, but without a huge stash of cash, it’s felt impossible.

When we went to try this beautiful, incredible-moving mare, the dream suddenly felt attainable. She’d be the one my daughter could take into the hunter ring and potentially move up like she longed to do. For the first time in a while, I thought, Maybe I can make this happen for my kid. We can finally buy her a horse.

So instead of doing my due diligence—a vetting, research, thinking carefully—I got swept up in the moment. I listened to our then-trainer’s encouragement to just do it, leave with this horse ASAP, without a vetting. And to the seller who said someone else was coming to grab the horse the next day.

My brain whirred under the pressure, and before I knew it, we were driving away with the mare in the trailer. I was petrified but hopeful. Hopeful that my kiddo had finally gotten her lucky break. That her hard work would pay off. That other people, not just me, were looking out for her.

And though my daughter and I had doubts, we grew to adore this mare. With new shoes, joint injections, steady work and hugs, she became quieter and happy to do her job. When I questioned her trainer about her soundness over fences, she assured me she was just fine.

But when things went sour with my daughter’s trainer (gut-wrenching) we moved the mare to our small farm. And at home, though she thrived, something in my gut still felt off. So again, I called a vet. We took a few radiographs, injected more joints, adjusted her shoeing, put her on Equioxx. CHA-CHING. So much money. So much hope.

My daughter’s dreams, buried deep to avoid disappointment, started glowing red in her cheeks again. We jumped small jumps at home and took her to a derby field. My daughter and this horse seemed to be living their best lives. Dreams took flight.

Our next step was a clinic. We were excited to see her in a new venue and get feedback. But as the mare jumped around, trying so hard for my daughter, her hind end grew increasingly weak. Even after all the maintenance, fitness and all the money. She wasn’t comfortable jumping.

Sadly, it’s a grief most riders know: when the hopes you place in a horse don’t match what their body can comfortably give. 

My daughter dismounted, devastated. All of our “Can you believe we found the one?”  giddy excitement from the past month turned to searing pain. 

Everyone at the clinic rallied around us. “She is so lovely,” they told my daughter. People offered vet names and strategies for strengthening her hind end. They offered soft words of reassurance. Some even put their arms around my daughter and whispered, “It will be OK.”

Moments like this remind you how often the horse world surprises us—how the right people show up exactly when you are about to call it quits. 

After we left, I stayed in touch with a number of these people. I called an incredible vet from their recommendations and pulled my daughter out of school so she could be at the appointment.

“What’s your goal with this horse?” the vet asked, glancing at my daughter.

“To do right by her,” my teen said quietly, forcing back tears.

“I’m so sorry you’re in this situation,” he responded. He took a series of radiographs and, knowing we were already stretched, took extras at his own expense. His expression was soft and earnest as he explained the findings.

At the end, we asked if she could still jump. He said we’d always “worry about her.” And I knew I couldn’t live with that. This mare was too good, too sweet, to push past her limits. I had to continue teaching my daughter the right way, which is to put the welfare of this horse first, even if it meant putting her dreams on pause. Again. Even if it meant heartbreak.

As the vet packed up, my 15-year-old rushed over and hugged him. I saw her grow older in those few minutes, her heart breaking and healing at the same time. Because even in the depths of her sadness, she saw such good in this man.

But I won’t lie about the rollercoaster drop that came next; we’ve been down. We’ve worked so hard to wrap our heads around how we ended up here again—another horse heartbreak when all we wanted was a good match. When all we wanted was to trust horse people. To believe in good. 

And … this horse. We’ve seen the beauty and heart of this mare in the few months we’ve owned her. And that makes this even harder. Because maybe, if we pushed, she could hold up for bit longer. But we aren’t willing to put her last. She deserves more.

Through the haze of hopelessness and tears, though, I kept answering the phone. Friends checked in on my daughter. When I said, “I failed her yet again,” they set me straight. Pro friends offered her horses to ride. One even offered to have my daughter show ponies with her. “Even if she can’t make it, tell her I offered,” she said. She added, “Sometimes all you need is a glimmer of hope.”

That “glimmer” has stayed with me. In the middle of my daughter’s sorrow, people came out of the woodwork with horses, encouragement, and healing words. Every gesture sparked tears of gratitude. A reminder—thereare good horse people out there. People to hold close.

Yes, I’ve made mistakes. Yes, I’m wary. But I’m also still hopeful.

And I know most riders have lived some version of this. Trusting the wrong people. Pouring your heart into a horse who ends up needing a different job. Learning the right lessons the hard way.

Though it kills me to see my daughter devastated, I’m incredibly thankful. Because I know there are people—those glimmers—you can trust with your horses and your heart.

You just need to know where to find them.

Jamie Sindell has an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and has ridden and owned hunters on and off throughout her life. She is a mom of five kids, ages 4 to 15. She and her family reside at Wish List Farm in Pennsylvania, where her horse-crazy girls play with their pony and her son and husband play with the tractor.

The post When Doing Right By The Horse Breaks A Kid’s Heart appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

It’s a story that’s too often told: a beloved horse sold, its fate unknown. My version of that tale turned out to have a happy ending—although it took four decades for me to find that out. 

The long-ago sale of my horse was one born of necessity—another fact so common it’s (also) a cliché. My father had lost his job, and my parents were struggling financially. I was in my first year of college, and my parents decided to sell all three of my horses soon after I left for school. I never saw them again and never knew what happened until this past year.

All three were horses that I’d purchased myself thanks to various summer jobs, the price of which I still remember with remarkable clarity, all these years late: Lady, a 4-year-old green broke Quarter Horse ($400); Trystana, a black Welsh pony cross ($75) and Dawn, a tall chestnut Arab-Appaloosa filly who was just a baby of 16 months ($175). 

They were cheap horses because that was all we could afford. We didn’t even own a horse trailer, just a pick-up truck. But we did have two good-sized barns and two well-fenced pastures on our Indiana “farm” of 12 acres, surrounded by vast fields of soybeans and corn tended by our real farmer neighbors.

Looking back all these years, it’s odd to think I know how much I paid for my horses, yet I have no idea how much my parents made from their sale. They never told me, and I never asked. They kept the money, which helped keep me in college. 

My parents never told me to whom they’d sold my horses to either. It was a Facebook message I received in March 2024 I finally learned what had happened to Dawn. 

The message was from a woman named Gina Keesling, of Alexandria, Indiana. Gina had received an advance copy of “Dear Readers and Riders,” a biography I’d written about famed children’s book author Marguerite Henry to be published that May. (Marguerite Henry famously wrote “Misty of Chincoteague” and 58 other mostly true stories about horses and children.)

My publisher, Trafalgar Square Books, had sent advance copies of my book to reviewers, bloggers, and booksellers. Gina publishes HoofPrints, a combination of catalog and chatty newsletter from her Indiana home. When Gina received a copy of “Dear Readers and Riders,” she messaged me on Facebook: Had I once lived in Deerfield, Indiana? 

The question surprised me. Deerfield, Indiana, is no more than a place where two highways intersect—a junction with nothing but a red blinking light. Our farm was less than half a mile from that intersection. (My parents lived on the farm for a decade after they sold my horses; they later moved to North Carolina, Maine and finally Texas before they both passed away.)

“I ended up with that half-Arab filly you sold,” she wrote. “She lived a good long life; I called her Loki.” Gina wrote. 

I burst into tears when I read those words on the screen.  

“You just made my heart leap!” I wrote—because it sounded more dignified than, “You made me burst into big noisy sobs”—to which I added, “We called her ‘Dawn’. Could you send pictures/tell me more? I am so happy.”

And thus began a correspondence between Gina and me that continues to this day. I learned that Dawn/Loki (her registered name was Dawn of Lokhan) had grown up to be a lovely horse with a kind disposition. Gina trained her to ride—although she admitted she probably knew as little as I did when it came to training a young horse, but it had all turned out quite well nonetheless. 

Gina was just a teenager—like me—when the mare came to live on her family farm outside Portland, Indiana. She recounted the details of a sale I’d known nothing about. Gina’s grandmother’s hairdresser’s husband was a local man who had purchased both Dawn and Trystana from my parents, telling my mother that he would keep the two together.

He lied, Gina said. 

“In reality, he immediately sold the filly to me and took the pony to auction. By the time I had called your family it was too late,” Gina said, speculating my pony was sent to slaughter.

Gina is still somewhat scarred by the memory—as I was all over again—reliving what had happened and what neither of us could control all those years ago. 

But the photos Gina sent me of a pretty chestnut mare with a light dappling of spots lifted my spirits. In some pictures Loki was standing in a sunny pasture, in others Gina was riding her, western, not English, as it turned out. Gina explained that while the mare turned out to be a fairly big horse she wasn’t suited for jumping because she was “up-headed” and not very bold. 

When Gina left home for college, her parents kept Loki on their farm where she lived out the rest of her days. Although Loki wasn’t ridden much after Gina went to school, whenever Gina came home for a visit she’d saddle Loki up and ride her through the fields. Only much later Gina realized now how incredible it was that she could just saddle Loki without worrying about how long it had been since she’d been ridden, or how she might act. Loki was always calm, always well-mannered. 

And so it turned out that by writing a book about Marguerite Henry, I discovered a true story of a horse lost and found—a story, you could say that was not unlike one written by Marguerite Henry herself. 

Lettie Teague is the wine columnist for the Wall Street Journal and the author of several books including “Dear Readers and Riders,” (Trafalgar Square Press) a biography of best-selling children’s book author Marguerite Henry. She began riding when she was 9 years old and has owned several horses over the decades, some of them more memorable than others. The late Dawn/Loki was one of the memorable ones.

The post How Marguerite Henry Helped Solve A Decades-Old Lost Horse Mystery appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

Morgan had let go all other activities, her mother told me, to ride four days a week while school was out. The teen was all in, with goals of learning to jump and attending more frequent shows.

“This is it,” her mom said. “Riding’s her thing.”

Like most horse-crazy kids, her ultimate dream was a horse of her own. But unbeknownst to that teen in the barn, the reality of horse ownership was not as improbable as she imagined. In that car that day, her mom told me she and her husband were ready to talk more seriously about the responsibilities that came with owning a horse in order to support their youngest child.

Our riding program—as you may know through my blogs here—is small and beginner-focused; we take pride in developing equestrians’ foundational skills, on and off the horse. We offer a little leasing to our more advanced riders, but no boarding, and our only competitions are casual schooling shows on the property or in the area as schedules permit. 

Morgan had been with us since elementary school, but it was becoming clear: She would soon outgrow our program. 

For about six months, Morgan had been riding and leasing Ella, a sporty little red mare that we were fostering for Flying Changes Equine Rescue. The mare holds a place in my heart; she belonged to my dear friend Angie who passed away from breast cancer in 2016. Ella had been rehomed after Angie died, but when that family faced the financial struggles that often accompany divorce, they asked the rescue for help. Though my barn was full, I had too much stake in Ella’s safety. I told that family to load her up and bring her here. 

Morgan was one of only a few riders in the barn who could handle the mare and not be intimidated by her spunk. Despite pushing 20, the Friesian/Rocky Mountain Horse cross has far more go than whoa. Morgan loved Ella and handled her well, riding out her occasional zoomies and constantly questioning what she could do better as a rider to help the horse to shine. 

I might have mentioned to Morgan’s mom, Jen, in the car that day that Morgan and Ella—who was ready for adoption through the rescue—might make just the perfect pair. 

Not long after, Jen and her husband Jim sat down with me, Morgan-less, in the barn office so I could talk them through what it really meant to own a horse. 

Jen had ridden in her youth and vibrated with excitement recognizing that the family was in the position to make this dream come true, and Jim—an equine newbie, bless his heart—asked questions and nodded, interested and supportive (or perhaps, realizing also, that between his horse-loving wife and equestrian daughter he was sorely outnumbered). 

By the time our conversation wrapped up we were planning next steps, namely finding the right boarding barn and show program for Morgan and Ella to continue their education. Jen was giddy as we conspired plans for revealing the news to Morgan that the horse she’d come to love would be her very own. 

I was surprised by the catch of my own words in my throat when I told Morgan’s parents, on their way out the door, that this gift would change their daughter’s life in ways that we couldn’t yet imagine.

Because there’s magic, I told them, when it comes to girls and horses.

From the time I could walk, an inexplicable force pulled me like a magnet to the horses in my aunt’s backyard. Something about it all—the softness of their eyes and the tickle of their whiskers and the rhythmic chewing of hay and the smell of the barn—just felt like home. 

In elementary school, when I started taking weekly lessons, it became quickly apparent that I had the loose-screw common to all equestrians. I’d have rather spent time in that dark, musty, spiderwebbed barn than absolutely anywhere else in the world. 

By fifth grade, I was leasing P.J., a white-faced, four-socked bay pony who was my safety net through a tough transition to a new school. When Joe Glassar teased me from the back of the bus about the zits beginning to dot my forehead, or the mean girls in gym class snickered at me for not wearing a bra (I was flat-chested until high school) or shaving my legs (my leg-hair was translucent-blonde), the sting of their harsh words all but disappeared when I stepped into P.J.’s stall and buried my face in his soft neck. 

In middle school I was tall and thin and awkwardly angular, and I lacked the hand-eye coordination to have even a mediocre talent at team ball-sports. I’d failed out of dance years prior, and willingly quit softball (twist my arm) to spend more time at the barn. 

I was 14, I think, when my parents and I negotiated at the kitchen table the terms for a horse of my own. They saw my efforts at the barn—I’d picked up barn chores and babysitting jobs for the barn owner in exchange for more saddle time—and wanted to support my passion. But I’d need to contribute. When I had $2,000 saved, we could begin to search. They’d pay board, they said, and I’d be responsible paying the vet and the blacksmith. 

Within a year, I’d saved the agreed-on amount and after just a few weeks of searching, a chunky red Quarter Horse gelding named Boogie Dee Socks was officially mine. 

I decorated his stall with souvenirs I bought him on vacations, and when I got a job at Bruster’s Ice Cream, I stopped by the barn with the scoop of watermelon Italian ice—his favorite flavor—I’d earned at the end of my shift. I dressed him up for Halloweens; one year we were hula dancers and another he was a brick wall and I, Humpty Dumpty. In my high school graduation photo, he was my plus one.

“Elmo” and I were together for 23 years. 

He saw me through high school milestones and four years of college when my aunt and uncle graciously housed him in that barn in their backyard I’d loved as a child. Elmo moved from Pennsylvania to Virginia with me for my first teaching job where I lived in a trailer so I could also afford his board, a choice I’d make again and again for the comfort and security he offered so far away from home.

That horse was my grounding force through the tumultuous teenage years and the waves of early adulthood. I cried in the corner of his stall, arms wrapped around my knees, more times than I can count. In college, his steady force helped me through the end of that first relationship I thought would last forever. 

As an adult, when I was rocked by Angie’s death to cancer at 35, and a life-threatening ectopic pregnancy a few years later, it was Elmo’s muzzle against my wet cheek that helped me find my breath and come back into myself. 

Elmo was my steadiest, most reliable colleague when I began teaching riding lessons, first at a small boarding barn where I picked up few students on weekends, then at the farm my husband and I bought in 2017. (I cried again in his stall—tears of joy this time—when I brought him home to the barn I can see from my living room window.)

Elmo taught me responsibility. He liked to colic—mildly but reliably—when the weather changed, and I have vivid memories of sitting in his stall, wrapped in a stable blanket and studying for a high school French test, so I could keep an eye on him when he was acting off.

He taught me, when he became my school-horse colleague, to remember what horses look like through the eyes of a child. When I’d stoop to kid-level next to a student and look up at my horse’s kind eyes and soft nose, I was a kid again, too. Watching my students learn to love him was a constant reminder of how lucky we are that horses allow us to be their partners. 

Elmo also taught me to let go. He was 31 when I lost him a few years ago, fine on a Friday and down in his run-in shed on a warm Saturday. While I waited for the vet to arrive to help Elmo cross that rainbow bridge—my beloved horse comfortably doped, thank God, on a high dose of Banamine—I called my parents to break the news. 

“Can I please come see him,” my dad asked, choked up. “I know what he means to you.”

It was my father’s signature scrawled on that check 23 years prior that brought Elmo into my life. And en route to my farm that morning, my dad called the large-animal cremation company and read off his credit card numbers—his way, I knew, of supporting me through this hardest loss.

A year after Elmo died, we tore down the rusting, dilapidated pole-building that was serving as our main barn. When we poured the aisle in the new building, I spread some of Elmo’s ashes in the heavy, wet concrete. Literally and figuratively, he will forever be my foundation. 

That gift of horses—the visits to my aunts, the lessons as a child, the lease of a pony and that first horse of my own—shaped the course of my life. 

Ella will shape Morgan’s life, too. 

Last weekend, we had our annual barn photo shoot. My dear friend Hilary is a talented equestrian photographer who shoots my lesson students and families every autumn.

Jen had it all planned: Hilary would photograph Morgan and the mare, then I’d take Ella back to her stall for some family photos sans-horse. While Hilary was shooting all the mom and dad and sisters and grandparent combos, I’d put on Ella’s new halter, deck her out in big, red bows and wait for Jen’s signal. 

Behind the barn, under a big, broad oak, Morgan saw the mare approach. I handed her a gift bag. Jen videoed from her phone and Hilary positioned herself, camera raised. 

I handed Morgan a gift bag and her hands shook as she unwrapped a wooden stall sign from pastel tissue paper. 

Ella’s name was on the top line in blocky font. 

“Owned by… ” was below it in a delicate script. 

“Thank you,” she said, her voice wobbling. “It’s so cute.”

She looked from adult to adult. She was afraid to ask the obvious question, it seemed, in case somehow she was reading this all wrong. 

“There’s one more thing in there,” I said. 

The bag and all its contents nearly fell to the ground as she fumbled to remove the oversized, embossed navy envelope tucked inside.

She opened it and began to cry.

“Oh my God,” she said. Her shoulders shook. Saucer-wide eyes darted from me to her mom, dad, and sister. 

“Thank you so much.”

“WHAT DOES IT SAY?” her grandmother yelled from her seat in a folding chair at the end of the barn aisle. Jen and her mother had both ridden in childhood; Ella was a dream three generations in the making. 

“It’s a certificate of adoption,” she said, and turned toward her grandparents, tears streaking her cheeks. 

“She’s mine.”

I don’t know what it’ll mean, in the long run, for Morgan to have a horse of her own. 

I know that the morning after we moved the mare to her new barn, Morgan sent me a selfie-video of her and Ella sharing bites of a carrot, a Cheshire-grin wide across her face. 

(I also know that two days later, Jen and Jim visited Ella while Morgan was at school, irked that her parents wouldn’t pull her from chemistry to tag along. They smothered her with pets and fed her treats and sent me selfies with the horse and texts that read “new favorite child?”)

I know that Ella will help Morgan to improve in her riding, and I hope they find success in the show arena, whatever that means for them.

But I also hope that Ella will accompany Morgan through the years to come, grounding Morgan as she grows, in that wise, safe way that only horses can. 

There’s just something special between girls and horses. 

Sarah K. Susa is the owner of Black Dog Stables just north of Pittsburgh, where she resides with her husband and young son. She has a B.A. in English and Creative Writing from Allegheny College and an M.Ed. from The University of Pennsylvania. She teaches high school English full-time, teaches riding lessons and facilitates educational programs at Black Dog Stables, and has no idea what you mean by the concept of free time.  

The post There’s Just Something About Girls And Horses appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

If there’s one sentiment that rings true in life, both inside and outside of the horse world, it’s that everyone’s going to have an opinion on how you do things.

I know there were plenty of skeptics, including industry professionals, in my periphery when I retired my horse Dixie when she was 19, coming 20, and still physically sound. I knew she was unhappy. I exhausted all resources over a period of half a year to see if I could make her happy again as a riding and competition horse, and when I couldn’t, I let her take a step back. Dixie was not the type of horse to tell me no, so after six months of her emphatically saying just that, it was clear that I needed to honor her, even if we hadn’t achieved all my goals, and even if, physically, she may have been able to. 

Lots of people in my life understood. Others didn’t. I never second-guessed my decision, especially as I watched my horse become herself again in retirement. I knew her best, and as her rider and her advocate, I felt justified, prepared, and well within my jurisdiction to make that call.

Dixie is positively thriving in her retirement now at my parents’ Pennsylvania farm. She remains an important part of my life, but I’ve also shifted to bringing along my 3-year-old gelding, “Scotch.” While I’ve ridden dozens of young horses and assisted in some of their early training, Scotch is my first personal young horse. (I got Dixie when she was 15 and my childhood horse Chai when he was 8.) The process thus far has been far more rewarding than I had even imagined.

Making decisions for the life path of a young horse is a bit heavier and more nuanced than it is for an older horse at the end of their career. There’s no inherent risk in retiring a horse a little earlier than anticipated. There could be plenty of inherent risk to mis-stepping in a young horse’s development. And as Scotch’s 3-year-old year progresses, the outside noise about what I am—and am not—doing with him has become louder.

I’ve taken it slowly with him, as has always been my plan. I have plenty of scientific and anecdotal information that informs the way I operate with him. I always knew I didn’t want him started under saddle until he was 3, and I wanted his early rides to be low pressure, fostering his confidence and prioritizing his proprioception. I want to preserve his joints, his back and his mind for a long and successful career.

This summer, I selected a trainer to start him who shares my philosophy. She gave him the best 90-day introduction to being a riding horse I could have asked for. I then moved Scotch to a friend’s private farm in October, where we’ve done a little light riding and have since transitioned to mostly groundwork. I plan to give him the winter off from work under saddle so he can grow up some more, both physically and mentally. 

I think I’ve received the most proverbial side eye when divulging my plans for Scotch next year as a 4-year-old. I don’t need him to do anything spectacular or specialized. He will continue to hack out a good amount, as he did this summer. He’ll do some ring work, focus on going forward, get introduced to foundational concepts like bending and contact, and travel around a bit to learn about being ridden in new environments. I think Scotch’s first full year under saddle should be fun, mentally engaging, and prioritize his confidence for a strong overall foundation.

Scotch’s future career is as a dressage horse, but I don’t need him to be tied down to that at 4. The resounding expectation I’ve heard, though, is that Scotch should be in a professional program and begin his formal dressage education and show career next year. In failing to establish that as my plan, I’ve had my ambition questioned. I’ve been written off as too soft, as someone who’s babying a talented young horse, as if my plans will cripple his future career. It’s easy enough for me to shrug off this kind of feedback when it comes from friends and industry acquaintances, but hearing it from professionals has given me a bit of pause: Do they know better? Am I being too idealistic and making an ill-formed decision?

I am, after all, an amateur rider. I have more than 25 years of progressive experience in the horse world, but I am not a professional, nor have I ever been. I am in no way delusional enough to plan to bring Scotch along without copious professional assistance—I certainly plan to take plenty of lessons, and I’ve even been taking groundwork lessons with him this fall. 

But after much reflection, I have come to assure myself that my own experience is not without value. While there’s plenty I don’t know, there’s also plenty I do. I am confident in my knowledge and ability to play an active role in his development, especially the methodology with which it’s executed. I firmly believe that I don’t have to know how to independently execute all the training steps to be able to guide the direction of Scotch’s training or advocate for his kind, fair, methodical treatment.

Just as I didn’t see any inherent risk in retiring my older horse perhaps a touch early, I don’t see any inherent risk in taking things a touch slow with my young horse. In both situations, I’d rather err on the side of caution. Retiring Dixie too late could have further soured her and breached the trusting relationship we’d built, and it could have wreaked physical havoc in the form of ulcers or countless other maladies. Pushing Scotch too much, too soon could negatively impact his physical development, diminish his great natural desire to try, or sour him to his future career. None of those outcomes are worth pursuing an overly specialized training path and earlier show career to placate others’ expectations.

I am not saying I want to let Scotch do nothing until he’s fully grown or anything like that. I’ve also seen scientific and anecdotal evidence suggesting that early athletic development can benefit horses in the long run. I just think there are age- and maturity-appropriate ways to introduce that development without expecting the full athletic performance at four years old. Hacking is invaluable for his body and mind, and basics like rhythm, tempo, relaxation, and suppleness are worth introducing and working on slowly and patiently, without grand expectation.

I remember using the phrase happy, healthy athlete as a barometer for success in evaluating Dixie and her performance, especially toward the end of her career. That phrase has resonated in the long term. I’ve adopted it as something of a mantra as I map out next steps in Scotch’s career. 

And as I do so, my decision making will remain guided by correct, methodical development that prioritizes his mental and physical wellbeing. There are no prescribed timelines by which we must progress. I may not be a professional, but I am an experienced owner who will advocate for my horse’s best interests. As long as I abide by that standard, and as long as I’m developing a happy, healthy athlete, I’m confident I’m doing right by my horse. Beyond that, I don’t feel that I owe anyone any further explanation.

Laura Adriaanse is a lifelong equestrian, amateur dressage rider, and USDF bronze medalist. She has three horses: Solidarity LJS (“Scotch”), a 3-year-old Hanoverian gelding; Dixie Rose (“Dixie”), a 21-year-old Hanoverian mare; and Change of Heart (“Chai”), a 25-year-old Thoroughbred gelding. She also enjoys riding and helping to bring along her mom’s 7-year-old Connemara pony Kynynmont Walnut (“Dublin”). Laura lives in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, works in communications for a defense contractor, and, outside the horse world, loves writing, art, and the beach.

The post Following My True North As An Amateur Horse Owner appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

Even though it was four decades ago I clearly recall the day I asked my parents if I could learn to ride. They were slightly perplexed but managed to facilitate the process, and literally never looked back. Once I started taking lessons, Kate wanted to join in, as any self-respecting little sister would. 

Both of us equestri-enned with the utmost enthusiasm throughout the late 1980s and 1990s, doing all the things that were typical of our slightly feral generation. All-day, multi-county trail riding adventures with our shared best friend Angie were the norm. Assuring our mothers not to worry—that it “might look like we are galloping but we are only trotting” was a standard non-truth.

And then spending the remainder of our free time pretending to be horses, playing with various overused horse figurines, and planning our lives out as future award-winning riders was what we did. A staple in our young years was to parade our Breyer horses around, imagining that we were the top riders at the largest most fabulous of horse shows. This was a game that never got old to us.

My sister and I spent our latter teen years heading out to horse shows on our own, armed with nothing more than a scrap of know-how and a Delorme map. (We are old and can navigate sans GPS!) And while our teenage horse craze was in full swing, our parents continued to unironically support the madness (and also looked the other way when we were “trotting not galloping”).

While I leaped headfirst into the professional world of horses straight out of high school, Kate decided to take a more traditional (and probably more responsible) career path. 

For almost three decades she resisted the lure of horses (almost like a normal muggle) and thrives in the challenging of a career of medicine. About a decade ago, she relocated to Colorado and buckled down at the job she loves, with her dogs and partner, almost making the world think she would continue living a very normal and adult life. 

Until … I went to my first U.S. Dressage Finals (Kentucky) in 2023 when Kate and her then fiancé Steve joined a few other beloved family members to cheer me on. There, surrounded by glorious and beautiful dressage horses, her long-dormant horse crazy side began to reappear. By the time her plane touched down after the horse show, she had already lined up lessons at a dressage stable close to her home. 

Immediately, the two of us flashed back to decades prior, to a time when most all of our conversations had something to do with horses. And what could be more wonderful? In very short order she was in the market for a horse of her own and brought home her young and incredibly good-natured boy Nico, who has been an absolutely fabulous mount for her since his arrival almost two years ago. And just like that, it was all over, and we were right back to the olden days of all-horses-all-the time. 

Too bad if it’s the holidays, we are talking about dressage. Too bad it’s someone’s birthday, let’s talk about saddle fitting. Oh, and it’s time for Kate to plan a wedding? Tough luck, we will talk about that later, because it is the middle of show season. 

When Kate and Steve got married this past summer, my wedding speech was essentially a TED Talk about how horses have shaped our lives in different ways. Both of our husbands are enthusiastic about our horse craziness. While my husband, Eric, knew what he was in for, Kate went into her relationship with no horse baggage—so one can imagine the sudden introduction to all things equine may have come as a shock to Steve! 

I believe that having a partner who joyfully understands when I say, “I’m going to be at the barn for 30 minutes,” that actually means two hours, and “I’ll just do one or two horse show’s this season” actually means at least five, is essential. Thankfully, Steve is as unironically enthusiastic about Kate’s horse shenanigans as the rest of our family is, so he fits in perfectly. 

This season, after a whirlwind summer of showing, both Kate and I found ourselves at our respective regional championships on the same weekend in September. 

It was Kate’s first regional championship. Her classes were large, and her only goal was to gain experience in a big environment to bring into the 2026 season. Through the magic of technology my mother and I eagerly tracked her scores from her show in Parker, Colorado, while we were busy with my own horse, and crew of clients in Saugerties, New York.

Then, when Kate ended up champion in her second level adult amateur final, it was my dad back in Maine who sent the text “OHIO” to us, which is very on brand for my father and his ability to convey a whole paragraph in one word: We knew in that moment that both of us would be riding at U.S. Dressage Finals, held in Ohio for the first time this year, and it was ridiculously exciting. 

Five short weeks later we all convened in Wilmington, Ohio, at the World Equestrian Center. It was almost 30 years after our last horse show together as a family. This time we were armed with slightly more know-how (not to mention a GPS to get us there). It was one of those full-circle moments: experiencing a huge championship together and being lucky enough to have both our parents there, still cheering us on after all these years.

Our husbands—armed with later-in-life horse knowledge—were both incredibly supportive. Steve was able to attend in person, while my husband Eric was one of the official horse care people for me back at home. And for me, being able to be there and cheer for my sister at her first national championship was a life highlight, and one I won’t forget. While I know it was not “just yesterday” that we were bombing around on ponies, raising all kinds of hell, it’s still fresh in my mind that we are now the people we dreamed of being when we were growing up. 

I’m Sara Bradley, dressage rider, trainer, and a big fan of having family reunions at major horse shows.  I own and operate Waterford Equestrian Center in Waterford, Maine. When I’m not in the barn you can find me thinking about all things dressage at home, enjoying weird hobbies like running with my husband and dog, and looking for easter eggs in season 5 of “Stranger Things.” Please follow along for more shenanigans on Instagram @dubais_dream

The post 30 Years Later, A Competition Becomes A Full-Circle Family Moment appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

With USEF and all horse-related fees climbing, local shows are where my kids—and countless others—stay in the ring, learning, laughing, and loving the sport. Local is where showing stays real, fun and accessible. We need more local! 

I realize I’m lucky to live in an area with options. On any given weekend, there’s often more than one local show within an hour of us. We have a wide variety too: jumper-specific, dressage, derbies, you name it. We’re spoiled, right?

I love that my younger girls are excited to show locally. Because let’s be real: Most littles don’t care about the difference between the Dixon Oval and a local show ring. In fact, they prefer smaller classes where they aren’t lost in a crowd of glitzy ponies. And the chance of winning a good ribbon or prize is very appealing.

There are so many other reasons to love local shows. It’s not just about beginners. School horses get their moment to shine, and you don’t need a big budget to join in the fun. No stress over braids, fake tails, or fancy tack—just ride, smile, and spend less. Local shows make a pricey sport feel more doable, and honestly, that’s my kind of big time.

Some of our favorite local series even have “finals” on their own, smaller scale. Ponies don’t need to be hack-winning-lead-changers to qualify, and riders have the chance to earn year-end awards. We signed up for one series we frequent, and my girls are uber excited about the possibility of winning cool prizes, even if they aren’t Labubus. Local showing feels special too.

From my momming perspective, what I love most about local shows is the community. My daughters are besties with the office staff and the food stand folks. When I’m scrambling to find them for their next class, they’ve cozied up to the vendor selling shirts—or they’re at the food stand chatting, covered in Dorito dust. Though I end up madly wiping their orange-flecked show coats down, it makes me warm and fuzzy to know my fam is part of this nurturing bunch.

Last month at one of our favorite shows, it was my youngest’s birthday. While she was in the leadline ring, they made a special announcement. It might seem like a small gesture but watching my girl’s eyes widen into saucers when they called her name over the loudspeaker says everything about why these shows matter. She felt celebrated, Taylor-Swift-like.

As a local horse show mom, I’ve come to know the other trainers and parents who’ve become true friends. We root for each other. One mom-trainer and I have become daily texters. My girls adore her crew. Though my kids don’t ride at her barn, they still feel very much part of it—posing for group pictures and running feral around the show grounds with the pack. 

The judges at these shows often seem more relaxed, too—less focused on competition and more on growth. They don’t have to worry about strict rules. After my daughter’s recent class, the judge explained that her heels kept popping up then reminded her it would “come with time.” She didn’t want my daughter to feel disheartened for placing lower than others; she encouraged her to keep trying.

Moments like these are exactly why local shows are exceptional. The judges and participants tend to be approachable rather than intimidating. These shows are safe, budget-friendly spaces for mistakes, for learning, and for supporting one another along the way—regardless of age or experience. 

That’s also why showing locally is perfect for developing green horses. I take our young pony because I know these smaller venues are a positive foundation. And I like showing her in a judgment-free zone, where I’m not afraid someone will snicker if her turnout isn’t immaculate or she puts a foot wrong.

What it comes down to is that local shows aren’t just a more affordable option. They’re an essential stepping stone. They give both horses and riders the space to build confidence before stepping into bigger rings. 

And for some, local shows aren’t just the beginning; they’re exactly where they want to be. Forever. I adore that.  

But the hard truth is, we don’t have more local shows for valid reasons. They take time, energy, and money to organize. Hiring judges, arranging ribbons and prizes, and covering insurance isn’t cheap. Trailer parking can be a nightmare. Plus, some barns focus only on attending rated competitions, so smaller venues can struggle to attract entries. I’ve seen the lack of entries firsthand at some of our locals, and it breaks my heart. But it’s not a lost cause.

Because there’s a barrier we can overcome: the stigma around local shows. In some corners of the horse world, they’re seen as “less serious” or “for beginners.” Changing that mindset is vital if we want local shows to thrive. Local isn’t less than. It’s just a different, wonderful option.

And, yep, social media makes the stigma worse. Feeds are flooded with perfect rounds at big-name venues. It’s easy to feel like that’s the version of showing that counts. But the real heart of this sport is in the early mornings at local shows, where kids help each other tack up and braids are a little wonky.

I know not everyone has the local luxury. I have friends who are hard-pressed to find a local show within reasonable driving distance, and that’s a shame.

Which is why the shows that do exist feel like hidden gems where kids and adults alike can learn, grow, and belong. With robust community investment and support, more riders could experience the joy of showing without the stress and expense of big events. 

Why shouldn’t more riders have access to that joy?

Let’s keep local shows alive. Let’s push for more of them. Because they remind us of what really matters. They’re where confidence takes root and riders with modest budgets still have room to grow.

Show up. Cheer loud. Support your local circuit. Let’s keep riders showing.

Jamie Sindell has an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and has ridden and owned hunters on and off throughout her life. She is a mom of five kids, ages 4 to 15. She and her family reside at Wish List Farm in Pennsylvania, where her horse-crazy girls play with their pony and her son and husband play with the tractor.

The post Local Shows Are The Heart Of The Sport appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

When my husband and I bought our little farm, despite being a horse owner for two decades, I wasn’t prepared for the anxiety and self-doubt that would accompany the responsibility of solo equine caretaker.   

The night the horses moved in, I wrapped my arms around my old gelding’s neck, buried my face in his fur, and cried. Elmo had been my 15^th birthday present 20 years earlier, and having him at home was a lifelong dream come true. 

The next morning, though, when he and Liffey, my newly-adopted OTTB, blinked at me over their stall doors, I stared back, wondering when some real equestrian would show up to take charge. But save for the one-eared barn cat judging me from the hay pile, I appeared to be very much alone. 

Over the past eight years, I’ve come to realize that while I am, in fact, the one overseeing things around here, I’ve never truly been flying solo. From horse-friends new and old, to the equine professionals I’ve come to love and trust, to the colleagues here at the barn who have become irreplicable as the farm became a business, I’ve been lucky to have a village of fellow equestrians to help me out along the way.

The Friends Who ‘Get It’

Some of my most vital villagers supporting me through the transition to farm life have been my other equestrian friends. When it comes to horses, if you have to explain what colic or chronic lameness is, it’s pretty much a guarantee that person won’t really understand. But horse friends just get it, don’t they? And that understanding has been invaluable, especially in the early days of owning the farm. 

I don’t think I made it 24 hours without calling Hilary, my oldest barn friend, for help. We’d met when she was 8 and I was 12, taking lessons and then boarding horses together. She’d bought a farm a few years earlier, talked me off my ledge that first morning when I debated the best way to introduce Elmo and Liffey to their new pasture and to each other. 

Eight years later I’m slightly more competent, but I’ll still text to ask if she’s blanketing, or turning out despite the chance of bad weather, or switching to day turnout this week or next. Sometimes she offers a perspective I hadn’t considered. Sometimes she validates the decisions I was already planning to make. But always, she is a reminder that though I may be the one with the official final say, a good horse friend is always in your corner. 

Patient Equine Professionals

A few weeks after they arrived, I moved the horses to the pasture by our house. Another dream-come-true: Out the kitchen window were Elmo and Liffey, now the best of friends. (No one but me had freaked out when they were first turned out together, in case you were concerned.)

But a recent storm had downed a little tree in that field. We hadn’t had yet had the time to cut it up, preoccupied by a leaking roof and a dangerously defective ceiling fan.

“Oh look,” my non-horsey husband said, sipping tea at the sink and looking out the window. “They’re eating the leaves of that little cherry tree that fell.”

“That’s a cherry tree?” I screeched, then after a quick Google search verified its equine toxicity, I frantically dialed the emergency line for the equine vet’s office that services our area. Our first conversation, as I recall, went something like this:

Me: “OHMYGOD my horses are eating a cherry tree in the pasture and they’re probably going to die and what do I do ?I’m a horrible owner; someone should take all my animals away!”

The vet: “Um, are you sure they’re eating the leaves?”

Me (runs out onto the dewy lawn in socks): “Well, now they’re not near the tree. They’ve gone back to their hay.”

The vet: “Are they showing any signs of colic? Any rolling? Pawing? Biting at their stomachs?”

Me, sheepish: “Um, no. They are, um, acting completely normal.”  

The vet (questioning all her life choices): “Take a deep breath. They’re probably fine. Just keep an eye on them and call if you need us. And maybe move them to another pasture until you get the tree out of there?”

Me: “I’m an idiot. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m sorry. Thank you. Bye.”

This was my first interaction with another vital set of villagers: the veterinarians and their techs whom I call on the regular when my horses throw at me more than I can handle. 

I’m aware of how lucky I am to have a team of knowledgeable and compassionate (and very patient) vets within an hour’s drive. I know so many equestrians don’t even have a local large-animal vet, and I know many others struggle to find emergency services outside of regular business hours. 

So I’m beyond grateful to my team who, over the years, have helped me through the following… emergencies?… among others without firing me as a client: 

• A lethargic horse who was in fact perfectly healthy but just tired from the switch to nighttime turnout. 
• A horse that looked rabid but had just consumed a good bit of a local fungus we call “drool weed”—harmless other than it creates a scary amount of slobber. 
• A midnight-on-Christmas-Eve choke. 
• A nail to the hoof. 
• A hoof to the eye. (Equine, thankfully, fixed with a heavy dose of sedatives and a dozen or so stitches.)
• A horse who suffered a topical reaction to a dewormer and whose muzzle swelled to three times its normal size. 

And when I found Elmo down in his run in a few years ago, bleeding profusely from his sheath, it was one of these beloved veterinarians who helped me understand that it was time to let him go. 

I called the clinic’s emergency line, left a message with the call service, and minutes later, my regular vet was on the line. 

“I heard about Elmo,” she said. “I’m not on call today, but I’m in the clinic doing a few things and saw your call come through. Let’s talk.”

If I needed concrete answers, she said, and if I could get him up, I could haul into the clinic for a scope. But based on his symptoms, and a few things she’d noticed in a previous exam, she was pretty convinced that some kind of tumor had ruptured inside of his abdomen.

I wasn’t putting a 31-year-old horse through surgery, and if her diagnosis was correct, there wouldn’t be anything else for us to do. 

“You’re telling me it’s time?” I asked, out-of-body. 

“I’m telling you if he were my horse, it’s what I would do,” she said. “And I don’t say that lightly.”

“I’ve never done this before,” I said, voice starting to shake. “Like, I’ve never seen a euthanasia. In all these years. This will be my first. What do I do?”

Generally, I struggle to accept help, especially when I know I’m putting someone out, but something told me I needed her there. And a few hours later she was, and her compassionate care of both Elmo and me at his end was an absolute gift.

The Colleagues Who Keep It All Going

Somewhere along the line, our little farm turned into a busy little business. In early 2018, I started offering a handful of weekly lessons; I’d been gifted a perfect little pony from another lifelong horse friend whose own program needed more advanced mounts and she was short on space. But soon I had a waiting list for lessons, and as a gift to myself I decided to hire stall-cleaning help on the days that I taught. 

A serendipitous email from the mother of a local teen led to a friendship that I know will be lifelong. From the moment Jules began working at our farm she treated it, and every animal here, as if they were her own. Daily she went above and beyond to do little things to make my life easier: filling feed buckets for the next feeding, conditioning a saddle that looked a little dry, cutting mats out of the long-haired barn cat’s fur. 

In 2019, I acquired a few more lesson horses to meet the program’s needs, but the one needing more help now was me: I taught high school full-time and teaching lessons on weeknight evenings and Saturday mornings was starting to wear me out. I needed help with lessons. 

When Meagan showed up at the farm with her impressive equestrian resume (“She’s more qualified to do this than you are!” my husband had teased) I worried that she was far too good for my little barn. But she’s someone whose big-picture ideas I appreciate and respect, and together—taking risks and challenging this industry’s norms—we’ve created a program of which we’re really proud.

When I had my son in 2021, she took over bulk of the lessons so I could focus on my new little family and the barn’s summer programming that I love. But I wouldn’t have been able to step back had it not been for the trust I have in Meg, whose opinion I value more than my own.

But more important than the help that Meg and Jules bring to the barn is their friendship. A few weeks ago, as she wrapped up a chilly evening of lessons, Meg asked if I wanted to be like the kids and ride the fuzzy schoolies around bareback. That half-hour in the indoor, a break from the monotony of working motherhood, was a small and necessary joy. 

One of the biggest adjustments from a boarding barn to having horses home is the quiet, and there was a lot of quiet in those early years at the barn. It’s a joy to share our farm with the people that I love, and I’m lucky to have found so many lovely people in my local horsey world.

I could triple this piece with more stories: the farrier who, visit after visit, worked with kindness and patience to earn the trust of a mare who feared being shod. The friend who rushed to the barn (when I was an hour from home) after a neighbor texted that a field of horses was loose. The colleagues who rallied after my emergency surgery to keep me away from the barn for a week. The village I can call when I need advice, or to vent, or just to talk through a situation I don’t want to handle alone. 

This season of giving thanks, I’m so grateful for my village, my equestrian support system. 

Perhaps you, like me, can see your horses out the kitchen window. Or maybe you board your beloved equines away from home. Regardless, let’s all celebrate the other equestrians in our lives who help us navigate the highest highs and lowest lows that come along with having—and loving—horses. 

Sarah K. Susa is the owner of Black Dog Stables just north of Pittsburgh, where she resides with her husband and young son. She has a B.A. in English and Creative Writing from Allegheny College and an M.Ed. from The University of Pennsylvania. She teaches high school English full-time, teaches riding lessons and facilitates educational programs at Black Dog Stables, and has no idea what you mean by the concept of free time.  

The post Thank Your Barn Village appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

And just like that, they strike up a conversation. Strangers become kindred spirits when connected by something only horse people understand.

At my kids’ swim lessons, I’m scrolling my phone, tuning out the splashing. Then I see her—a mom in riding gear. I ask, “You ride?” She smiles and replies, “Yes, eventing!” 

Immediately, we’re friends. In a blink, the class is over, and we’ve spent it talking horses. I know where she boards her Thoroughbred. We bond over the challenge of riding while raising kids. Though we had never met, our connection was instant. She is one of us.

Driving home, I spot a U.S. Equestrian Federation sticker on the car in front of me. It makes me smile. I don’t know the driver, but that sticker sparks the feeling: the driver is one of us. Even my kids notice: “Look! That car has a horse sticker!” We’re connected by this invisible thread.

And then there are places where you don’t have to seek that bond; you just feel it when you walk in. Like the tack store.

Browsing the tack store with my girls is sacred ground. It’s one of the few places besides the barn or horse shows where I know everyone gets it. Perusing riding shirts, inhaling the smell of new leather. This is our place. I could spend hours here with my girls, surrounded by others who get the obsession—people who might also walk out with a bit they don’t need, an extra bag of treats or a Breyer horse.

I used to think ordering everything online was easiest. But supporting my local tack shop, and being around other horse people with my kids, is irreplaceable.

And it’s not just me who loves being around our kind. My girls are the same: “Sage takes lessons too! Bri went to horse camp!” 

When they discover another kid who rides, it’s like uncovering buried treasure. They’re thrilled to find someone who speaks their love language.

I want them to find a built-in tribe who love what they love. Friendships that aren’t based on popularity or school cliques, but on something deeper. On passion.

That’s why I love horse camp for them. Because we ride mostly at home, camp invites them into a whole new world with a crew of kids they get to hang out with all week. Kids who also squeal over cute ponies and know the pain of riding without stirrups. They get it all. And that camaraderie, those friendships, are irreplaceable.

It’s also why my girls take lessons at the farm down the street. And why we horse show. I want them immersed with horse kids other than their siblings. I want them to form friendships. To feel they are a part of something bigger than a pony in our backyard.

Because horses aren’t a hobby for my family. They’re a lifestyle. A community. An “us,” not an “I.”

Even as adults, we crave belonging. For me, it’s being around other horse people—people who understand the sacrifices, the skipped vacations, the muddy floors, the stink in my hair.

Over the past few years, I’ve reconnected with old horse friends who understand my emotional, horse-induced ups and downs, and I’ve made new ones. At shows, I’ve chatted with strangers-turned-friends on the rail. That’s how I met the mom who ended up with one of our ponies. Another mom I met at Devon leadline three years ago? Now we text daily about our horse-mom chaos. She gets it when most of my friends don’t. She’s my horse-mom-bestie.

Horse friends have loaned me everything from trailers to forgotten garters, invited me to ride, hugged me on bad horse days, and tagged me online when they saw cute ponies for my girls. They’ve bailed me out at shows. Tied a stock tie for me when all I could form was a sad pretzel.

More than anything, horse friends are emotional support because they understand how this life can drain you yet fill you up all at once. How some days you feel you can’t live with horses one more second, but the next, you can’t survive without them. Anyone else would think we’re certifiable!

When I think back to my childhood, the memories I made through horses are the ones that lasted. The girls I spent every weekend with, from sleepovers to pancake-stuffed mornings, became my second family. They were more than friends; they were like sisters. And I’m grateful my girls are part of this sisterhood too, with such rich, lasting memories to make.

Yes, horse life can be isolating. There have been times I’ve cried, feeling alone—raising kids, managing a small farm, stressing over finances and time. But when I remember my family is part of this larger community, I feel grounded again. The horse friends. The strangers peppered with horsehair at the grocery store. The moms beside me at the ring with hearts pitter-pattering. We are all part of it. Living it. Getting it.

Because this world of horses gives us more than life lessons and ribbons. It gives us each other, sewn together by the itch of hay in your shirt, the groggy early mornings, and a love that never fades. 

And I hope my girls always know they belong to this life, to this community. They’re one of us.

Jamie Sindell has an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and has ridden and owned hunters on and off throughout her life. She is a mom of five kids, ages 4 to 15. She and her family reside at Wish List Farm in Pennsylvania, where her horse-crazy girls play with their pony and her son and husband play with the tractor.

The post One of Us: Spotting Hay-Covered Horsefolk In The Wider World appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.