Flying Change Equine Therapy

04/26/2026

I'm laughing. Don't judge me.

04/26/2026

What do?

My Recliner of Dubious Moral Assembly has been hijacked. I have a 5 lb lifting restriction in a 10 lb cat world.

All those times they were unceremoniously slid off the leg portion of the recliner when I got up to p*e.

"Vengeance is mine," quoth Kitties.

04/25/2026

Lol...Please confirm. Has the soothing screen saver that shows peaceful nature scenes with mood music been replaced with an Arby's, or am I high on pain meds?

04/24/2026

Well this is just undignified 🤣🤣🤣

04/20/2026

The Feline Home-health Nursing Staff has had just about enough of me. 🤣🤣🤣

04/20/2026

That time you forgot to bring your mastectomy pillow on Errands Day but carbs saved you 😂

04/18/2026

This is perfect. I wish everyone who interacts with horses knew this in their heart.

Sometimes I Say No.

And I need you to hear me.

My no might not be loud.

It might look like turning my head, stepping away, or standing still.

But it’s still a no. And it matters.

When I say no, I might be saying:

- “My body hurts, even if you can’t see it.”
- “Something feels off, and I need more time.”
- “Your energy is too much right now.”
- “The environment is overstimulating or unsafe.”
- “I’m confused, and I don’t understand what you want.”
- “I have memories in my body that haven’t healed yet.”
- “I don’t feel connected to you in this moment.”
- “I have a headache.”
- “I trust you enough to be honest.”

No doesn’t mean I’m disobedient.

No doesn’t mean I’m difficult.

No doesn’t mean I don’t love you.

It means I’m communicating the only way I know how.
And when you listen—without force, without frustration—
You become the kind of partner I can trust.

Because trust isn’t built through pressure.

It’s built through presence, patience, and choice.

✨ Every no you honor brings us closer to a true yes.

04/15/2026

A month and a week ago.
Three major cancer surgeries in eight days.

Honestly, it is kicking my ass.

My big recovery achievement a month out is that I can brush my hair by myself.

I'm still dependent on a rolling walker. I can't be around the horses safely because if they spook, I can't get out of their way. I can't lift more than 3 lbs to even put feed in stalls.

In the barn, on the farm, I am useless.

Worthless.

My two best friends are taking turns staying with me because I'm not able to manage alone.

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*
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It's not that the surgeons didn't tell me it would be like this.

They said it would be three to six months of recovery before I could work.

I just didn't believe them.

I've been pushing through injuries since I was 13.

I was jumping 3'6 courses with two crushed vertebrae and winning my division.

I've worked injured forever when doctors told me not to.

I thought I'd be able to push through this like I always do.

But I just can't.

This is different.

Every moment when I try to do something and realize I'm not able to makes it real.

Devastatingly small things.

I took a ten minute hot shower, got overwhelmed and needed a four hour nap.

The reality is that I just can't push through.

I'm going to have to find another way through this.

04/12/2026

Most people have experienced an apology that felt like it was more about ending the discomfort than actually repairing the harm. The words were there but something essential was missing. And your gut usually knows the difference even when you want to believe it was enough.

A real apology names what happened without deflecting. It doesn't make you comfort them for how bad they feel about it. It doesn't expect forgiveness on a timeline that works for the person who did the hurting. And crucially, it shows up in changed behavior, not just changed words. Because the most honest thing anyone can do after hurting someone is let their actions carry the weight of what they said.

An apology that doesn't lead to anything different is just a way of asking to be let off the hook.

04/11/2026

Smitty the Farm Ambassador supervised volunteers all day, and now he SIMPLY CANNOT.