12/18/2025
To the horse who saved me,
There are moments in a life that never ask permission before changing you.
You were one of those moments.
You did not arrive with answers or promises.
You arrived with breath, warmth, and a steady gravity that pulled me back into my body when my mind wanted to drift too far from it.
When the world felt sharp and unmanageable, you stayed soft without being fragile.
When I had no words for what I was carrying, you seemed to read it anyway, as if grief has its own language and you had always known it.
You stood like something ancient.
Grounded. Watchful. Unmoved by my storms.
As though you had been here long before me, and would remain long after, holding the line between chaos and calm.
Time behaved differently beside you.
Minutes slowed. Breath deepened.
Something old and steady took over, like a drumbeat beneath the noise of everything else.
That was where I learned safety, not as an idea, but as a felt truth that settled into bone and muscle.
You asked nothing of me except honesty.
Not strength. Not bravery. Not performance.
Just presence. Just truth, exactly as it was that day.
I laid my unspoken grief at your side.
You answered with stillness.
That felt like an ancient exchange, older than words, older than explanations.
People speak of being saved as if it is dramatic and loud.
What you offered was quieter, and far more powerful.
You taught me how to breathe again.
How to stand my ground.
How to remain when running would have been easier.
If love can exist without language, without demand, without conditions, then this was it.
A shared stillness.
A borrowed steadiness.
A knowing that did not need proof.
You did not carry me away from my pain like a hero from a book.
You stood beside me like a guardian, a silent shield, until I remembered how to carry myself.
