When I decided to take a break from riding in June, I breathed a sigh of relief after putting my helmet away. My barn wasn’t a great fit; I needed a break and a change. My dog’s rising vet bills made it hard to justify the cost of riding other people’s horses so I knew it was the right thing to do. After all, it would be temporary and I’d be okay without horses. I dedicated myself to training for a triathlon and focused on the long-term dream of buying my own horse.
Here’s what I didn’t expect.
Most of my friends are through horses, especially the internet and long-distance friends which sustain me while I struggle to make friends in Tennessee. My Twitter and Instagram feeds are largely curated around horses and most of my Facebook friends are people I know through horses. Horses aren’t in my life anymore but they’re still on my screens, staring back at me with their big kissable pony noses. It’s a bummer to look at but I’m also afraid to pull back too much; I can’t lose my friends and I still care about their hooved companions. I don’t want to listen to my horsey podcasts and I can’t stand all the tack ads that plague my feeds. What an unexpected heartache here in limbo.
I left Pittsburgh, and more importantly, my childhood barn, almost exactly five years ago. It feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago that I was spending nearly every day at the barn, part of a strong community and confident in my passion. When I moved to Nebraska and stopped riding all the time, I explored other hobbies and found joy in hiking, comedy, running, and photography. After a lifetime of one singular focus, it was refreshing to see what else I could do, and I was happy to see I have talents beyond making farm animals prance and jump over brightly colored sticks. Spending five hours a week at the barn instead of 30 helped me explore a different kind of confidence I didn’t know was missing.
But now life has changed again and there are no horses. My mind is confused. Since I was seven years old, there have been horses. Even when I couldn’t ride, there were horses to snuggle or feed or even muck up after. I haven’t touched a horse in six months and I cannot believe how much it hurts. I’m actually baffled by this pain; I am otherwise so happy and fulfilled.
How can the absence of one hobby have such an impact on my mental health? I knew I relied on my community of barn mates for shared understanding, I didn’t know I’d be lost without them as my north star. I knew I loved the smell of my horse’s neck and that I enjoyed relaxing after work with a bareback hack. I didn’t know that would be irreplaceable. It turns out you cannot replace morning rides with morning runs. I wish someone had told me that.
When I sleep now, it’s dreams of dressage tests and jump courses long completed, running through them again in the subconscious part of my brain that holds these core components of my being. I dream of shows and lessons. I dream of grooming and hand grazing. Seeing it all run through my head while I sleep is both a gift and a torture.
Are the people passionate about other sports haunted like this? Perhaps riding really is a sport like nothing else; I cannot imagine this angst for a soccer ball or a gym mat.
I wish there were more to me than this. I wish I could have temporarily walked away from this expensive, thankless sport that has wrecked my hips and made me cry and somehow given me both everything and nothing. I know now I can be happy pursuing other interests, but I cannot be whole. I have to have horses.
Horses are coming for me. I’m working hard to buy a horse, make new barn friends, and rebuild my crazy, stupid, horse-centered life. I can see it, blurry down the road, waiting for me in just a few more months. But today, as I avoid all the New Year’s posts about show goals and training tips and winter riding, I just feel like I did when I was seven and had a bad day at school, sitting around waiting for someone to take me to the barn so I can lean on my pony and feel okay again.