CHAPTER ONE 

My Greatest Teacher

Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve felt a call to the land. I’d rather be in the mountains than a metropolis, rather be sitting in a field by a pond than partying on a beach. I was born in Colorado and moved to Texas by age three, but I spent most of the summers of my youth with my grandparents in the mountains.

This is where an instinctive love of the land and nature was fostered and grew inside of me. Many of my very best memories come from time spent in the mountains, and of those, the most vivid and meaningful memories often came on horseback. I spent days riding horses in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado during those summers. Often with my sister and my cousins, but many times my grandmother would drop me off at the livery by myself, and I’d hang out for the afternoon and ride with the wranglers up to see the lake from a mountain view. Sitting on a cliff, seeing the lake valley below, drinking a cold RC Cola is a vision seared inside of me, and if I try really hard, I can still conjure up this exact moment in my mind. The view, the smell, the horses, the moment.

I did this for years. Those mountains, those summers, I’m so grateful for them. But when I became old enough to drive, and started wanting all of the standard teenager freedoms, I spent a lot less time in the mountains.

Life gets crazy really fast when you’re growing up. You’re at the top of the world, big fish, and small ponds, and most of us leave high school without a care in the world. But the reality of the real world can be quite a shock. It’s a very quick loss of innocence.

As I went through life, ups and downs, I often felt out of place. I went to school in New York City, and I lived a lot of life. I became a professional photographer and found my way back to Texas where Ryan and I were destined to meet.

As the pressures of life grew, so did my yearning for a more intentional life. An intentional life for me meant living and learning on the land. It took time, but I convinced Ryan and we moved out of the city. I had a dream of some land, a home, a sheep and a horse, and more dogs than you could count. We could start a family. It would be more than perfect.

So we did it. We bought land and started to build a house. One day on Facebook, the Houston SPCA made a post about a horrible case of animal cruelty where they brought in six pregnant horses. One horse, a chestnut with a flaxen mane, had been shot and left to suffer on the property. Standing next to the picture of this horse was a foal just hours old.

Ryan took a screenshot and sent it to me, and I felt something come over me. A longing from deep inside that I could feel in my chest. It was intense and even a little uncomfortable.

Ryan and I actually did a lot of photography and PR volunteer work for the Houston SPCA, and so I called and asked when this horse could come home. The farm manager said, “Whenever someone can get the mom into a trailer.”

I told them I wanted the horses. They were meant to be with me.

The next day, Ryan, my mother, and I went to the SPCA with a trailer. The mom and baby were in the first stall of the barn, standing in a corner. They were beautiful and just what I always wanted.

I went into the stall to talk to them and the baby came right up to me, awkwardly sniffing my hands and fumbling her lips on my skin. She had just been born the morning before, everything was new to her!

I fell in love instantly. She had a curiosity and innocence about her that made me smile; it made me feel warm inside.

The mom was nervous. She sniffed my hand from inches away and took a step back. She turned her head away a little bit, but she never once took her eye off of me.

I felt her intent gaze and that same feeling returned from the day before. A feeling that was loaded with emotions across the entire spectrum. I was nervous, I was enthralled, I was in love, I was invigorated.

I didn’t need to know anything else. Let’s go.

I told the barn manager we were all in, and she said, “Oh great. Let’s back the trailer up.” When we got ready to go back for the horses, I’ll never forget what she said to me.

“You know we can’t touch Lead (that’s what they called the mother, because she survived a gunshot and had a bullet lodged in her shoulder), so we will all form an alleyway to the trailer and push her in. The baby will just follow her.”

“Oh, of course,” I said. I looked at my mother and then at Ryan. This sounded weird.

It is important at this point to tell you something. All those summers with horses? I was a child. It was trail rides. I knew I loved horses; I had absolutely zero knowledge of the day-to-day aspects. I was a fish out of water, but I had jeans and boots on so I guess I fooled everyone. (To be clear, the SPCA did not know I had embellished my experience, and I never should have gotten into this situation as unprepared as I was.)

Two minutes later, a frightened mom ran into the trailer followed by a bouncing baby, the door was closed, and we were headed down the road.

For a few seconds no one talked in the car. It wasn’t an awkward silence, it was much-needed relief. A lot just happened and I’m sure everyone was thinking what I was.

As we exited the SPCA lot, it was silent except for the clanging of the trailer back and forth over the speed bumps. I glanced in the mirrors and said one thing:

“What the hell am I going to do?”

When I look back on this day—April 21—I know that it is the day most responsible for who I am today. The singular moment that changed my life the most. It was the beginning of an entirely new journey, a journey that was going to take me to Hell and back. A journey that would be physically and emotionally hard, but with more reward than anything I could hope for.

On the way home we settled on names. Ryan named the baby Dolly, after his absolute favorite, Dolly Parton. The mother was mine to name, and I settled on a very special name close to my heart—the name of one of my grandmothers who had passed a few years earlier: Lucille.

Lucille was nervous, she was scared, and you really couldn’t touch her. Honestly, I was nervous. I felt this deep soul-connection with this horse, but I also had no idea if I knew what I was doing. Could I trust my intuition, or should I call this whole thing off before anyone got hurt?

I kept going. Our house wasn’t built yet and we boarded the horses. Every day I sat with Lucille and Dolly in their stall, and Dolly and I became fast friends. She would often lay down across my feet in the stall while I wrote in my journal or just watched the two of them. Lucille perpetually had her eyes glued on me, but was always just out of reach.

One day I let the horses out into the barn aisle while I cleaned their stall. Dolly was running up and down the aisle, being silly, and I was playing with her at one end of the barn. Lucille was at the other. She had her nose up to the door and—just as I realized I had not latched that barn door—so did she. She pushed it open. I ran and scared her, and she was gone in a flash—out the front of the barn, onto the road, and through someone else’s property.

I ran after her. I felt entirely helpless, but I kept running. I had no phone service at this barn, no idea where I was, I had never touched this horse, and I wouldn’t know what to do if I could. But I knew I needed to keep my eyes on her. I’d figure the rest out later.

Just when I thought I’d given it all, I had to launch into full sprint to keep up—but suddenly, we stopped.

Lucille paused to look at some barking dogs down the road. The moment she stopped, so did I. I doubled over breathing and put my hands on my knees. I looked up, and Lucille’s eyes were once again fixated on me.

I did the only thing I thought of. I just sat down and talked to her. For ten minutes we sat there just off the road in someone’s front yard. I didn’t have the energy to move anyway, and I’m sure Lucille thought I looked a little crazy.

When I regained my composure, I stood up and told Lucille we would have to get back together. I couldn’t walk fast anyway, my body was exhausted, so I started slowly walking behind her. She started walking, but not too fast. She was matching my speed, keeping that same just-out-of-reach distance between us.

I talked to Lucille the entire way back to the barn, and somehow we made it. I know she was going to get back to her baby one way or another, but I could tell in this moment we were linked. I felt a draw between our energies. But I also could feel when I got too close.

➰There was a sweet spot, a place where we both felt safe, and were still working together.➰

Lucille was showing me her boundaries, and I was lucky enough to be moving slowly enough to see them.

It would be two months from that day before I would even be able to touch Lucille and put a halter on her. I could tell that Lucille trusted me—you could see it in her eyes—but I don’t think she had much confidence in me for a long while. A horse like Lucille would never succumb to leadership by force, and to earn the confidence of such an animal was an uphill task.

To understand horses, you have to understand their nature as one of the largest prey animals on earth. A prey animal’s survival for centuries has depended on their ability to make decisions in a split instant. This fact is probably one of the biggest things I overlooked about horses before Lucille.

Humans are apex predators. We don’t even realize our nature at the top of the food chain. The fact that horses allow us to do anything at all with them—much less climb on their back like a lion—is incredible. And they’re not just taking their chances with us. By the time you’re within walking distance of a horse, they have already completely evaluated every part of your intentions. Horses are absolute masters of unspoken communication.

I threw myself into every bit of horsemanship education I could to get better for Lucille. I learned the basis of pressure and release, and I spent hours practicing communication with her. I spent five straight years of my life devoted to learning horsemanship just so I could speak with Lucille. I desperately wanted her to trust me implicitly so she could feel comfortable and safe.

Whenever I was out on the farm, I knew she was watching and reading my every move. Horses see everything anyway, but there was a constant connection between us. Underneath that connection, though, lingered a tension. A push and pull instead of the harmony I knew we could have and wanted for both of us.

Lucille is woven through every bit of my horsemanship journey with every horse, and along the way, the lessons have been profound. One of the strongest lessons was while teaching Lucille to lower her head and relax. This was a difficult exercise because Lucille naturally held her head high, ready to bolt. She didn’t want to relax. She also had a major issue with anything touching her ears.

When the SPCA pulled Lucille in on cruelty, she was significantly pregnant. Because of this, they could not anesthetize her fully to remove the bullet. She was pushed into a cattle chute, and her ear was pinched while the procedure was done to deaden her nerves so they could continue. No doubt, a necessary but very traumatic experience.

One thing I did know was that a horse with reactivity to touching their head is dangerous.

I had a significant amount of nerves when doing anything near Lucille’s ears, which always made her pull back anyway. I was scared I would do something wrong—or even scared one of us would get hurt.

It seemed like there were so many roadblocks to this exercise, and I was having difficulty. A very wise horsewoman, Cat Parks, once said to me, “You have to ask for less in order for you to get more,” and she repeated this to me when we were discussing my work with Lucille.

Cat essentially told me in a very gentle way that I was too much. I was asking too much, I wanted too much.

Ask for less and I would see, she reiterated several times to me.

And so I did. Instead of going straight to the top of her head, I put my hand on her neck and gently applied a little pressure. I felt her go down the slightest bit and I stopped asking. And Lucille noticed. Her eye met mine directly. I asked again. I got more. I stopped. I took my hand away, and Lucille lowered her head a couple of inches and started licking her lips.

✰Asking for less allowed me to release for the slightest movements, to reward a try instead of waiting for the win.✰

Celebrating these small wins gave both of us more confidence in our relationship, and the change was immediately palpable. In two weeks, I could rub my hands across Lucille’s ears and ask her to lower her head.

It’s no secret in the horse world that horses can read a human in an instant from a mile away. I didn’t know this. And so, I spent a significant portion of my horsemanship journey as simply too much for a sensitive spirit.

Even when my intentions were noble and good, they came off too strong. When I wanted Lucille to desperately feel comfortable, I was pushing her away. She was telling me in all the ways she could: I was just too much.

This was one of the greatest lessons in how my emotions can affect others. Could I, at times, be putting people off merely by being too excited? Too energetic? Has an angry attitude or disconnected spirit kept opportunities for connection away?

Over the years, my horsemanship mentors and I decided I should try to ride Lucille. The thought was that it would be good for both of us—to grow our partnership, and for Lucille to experience more. It was clear to most of them Lucille had been under saddle at some point in her life.

We took a few days practicing putting the saddle on Lucille and then just sitting on her. The feeling was absolutely surreal. I never imagined taking my relationship with Lucille this far, and my mind was racing with all the places we would go together. The morning I was to have my first steps on Lucille, I was beaming inside but working on releasing my nervous energy. After working with several other horses, it was time for Lucille. I did all the groundwork, put her saddle on, tightened it, and climbed on. This was it. I asked for a step. She gave it to me. And then I asked for another. I was in heaven. We were connecting.

We were just going to ask for a few steps, of course, because you always want to leave your time with a horse on a positive note. So it was a few more steps and I was going to get off. I’m not really certain what happened next—if there was a tree snapping or if I squeezed too tight—but Lucille got startled. I remember feeling her tense up and do a little hop and then, ⭑it was as if I was on a comet.⭑

She breathed in quickly and was further spooked by her saddle cinch around her chest as her lungs filled. She had had enough and needed to get out of there.

So she took off with such unyielding force that I tried to hold on but instead went flying off her back end. I hit the sand completely flat, and a pulse flashed throughout my entire body. I had the wind knocked out of me in more ways than one. But things weren’t finished quite yet. I got up and headed toward Lucille to make sure the reins were secure. Then, I listened and worked as my trainer guided me through the steps to keep Lucille’s feet moving so she could release her energy and calm down, so we ended the lesson on a positive note.

But I was left questioning. I was also left in pain. I wasn’t 19 anymore. It seemed really dramatic, this entire scene, and it just didn’t seem like the Lucille I had come to know. She was cautious, alert, apprehensive at times, but never dangerous.

I asked Cat Parks to evaluate her and she came and got straight bucked off of this horse. Cat Parks does not come off of a horse—this I know for certain. Lucille was bucking so violently she either had part bull in her or something was going on. Cat immediately assumed severe pain.

And it turns out she was right. We never did a full body scan on Lucille, and when we did, it was clear she carried even more injuries than just the bullet wound near her shoulder. She would be in far too much pain to ever ride.

So I worked with Lucille from the ground. As I was able to leave more and more of my emotions outside of the field, Lucille and I were drawing closer and closer together. She started waiting for me at the fence, and whinnying when she saw me coming. ➰Somewhere along the way, after the working-so-hard bit softened, after we just started existing together, we started to both find comfort in one another.➰

One day a few winters ago, I was going outside to put a blanket on Lucille. She’s one of the horses that likes to be outside 24/7 and she doesn’t grow the thickest winter coat, so every now and then she needs some extra protection.

I got to Lucille and brushed off her back with my hand and slung the blanket up on top of her. It was already pretty chilly so I was working a little fast. I pulled it even, fastened the front, and fastened the middle underneath her. Then, I took the back straps, crossed them under her tail between her back legs, and clipped them to the blanket. I rubbed her face, turned around, and started to head back to the warmth.

But I stopped and turned to face Lucille. She was still looking at me—there was that eye again. I walked back to her and put my arm around her neck and took a moment to take everything in. I had just come out and blanketed Lucille with no pause, like she was any other horse on the property.

✮This is where I always wanted to be. This moment. I wanted Lucille to feel safe with me. I wanted to know I could provide for her. And here I was, blowing through this moment like it was old news.✮

To be honest, this sort of was old news. This was probably the second or third time I had to put the blanket on Lucille that winter. Come to think of it, there weren’t any issues any time—with me feeling hesitant or her feeling nervous. It was a thing of the past.

I think about this moment with Lucille often because I think it illustrates an incredibly poignant reminder: ✰we miss out on the journey when we are focused on the goal.✰

And it isn’t actually just that. ✮We miss out on appreciating the goal, because the goalpost was already moved, long before.✮ I know I’m not the only one that does this. We are so used to wanting more, needing more, and having more expected of us, that we can’t stop to appreciate how far we have come.

I was filled with emotion outside on that cold night with Lucille because I knew how far we had come. There was a time that a moment like this—just a simple everyday task being just that, an everyday task and not some huge lesson—seemed like it would never come. I felt warmth inside of me as I acknowledged the version of me in the past that would have given anything to be right where I was.

And I almost missed the chance to celebrate this moment.

We need to be able to take time and honor our path and how far we have traveled, even if the destination has changed. The trials, tribulations, and triumphs can easily seem to be for nothing if we can’t see where they have taken us.

It’s important to acknowledge that wherever we are, we made it there. Lucille and I both worked for this moment, and it felt fulfilling to acknowledge that work.

There are lots of things we need to do for horses that they don’t necessarily need in the wild. Living with humans is different in almost every way for them. We have to trim their feet, monitor their diet, give them vaccinations, and routine vet care. It’s hard to see horses struggle through routine care because they are not comfortable, and it was such a relief to me that we had Lucille to a point where she handled all her routine care with ease.

Horses have to have their teeth “floated” every year. The food and forage they get in modern times is far different than what their historical counterparts and wild horses of today eat. The horse is sedated, but still standing. Their mouth is held open, and a dentist or technician can examine their teeth and file any down as needed.

Large animal vets are different than small animal vets. They handle their own emergencies, and they’re on call 24/7. You build a very long-term and personal relationship with your large animal vet. And my vet at this time, Semira, had become a very good friend. We had traveled together and had children of the same age.

We always chatted about life while she was working with the animals, and she was obviously familiar with my story. She loved Lucille and was intimately involved in my quest to communicate with my horse.

So I was a little taken aback during Lucille’s teeth float when she turned to me and said, “How old is Lucille?”

I said, “She is 16,” and I could feel immediately something was about to happen.

Semira just said, “Okay,” and kept working.

“They told me she was 7 when I got her.”

My mind started racing. That’s what they said. Could they have just said that? No. You can tell. You can tell by the teeth. Surely someone looked. Right? Please don’t tell me she’s older.

Semira kept working and glanced back at me. I could tell she needed to say something.

“How old is she? Do I want to know?”

Semira winced a little as she turned back to me.

“She is at least 29.”

I remember being stunned. Taken aback. In two seconds, I lost 12 years.

12 years that I had plans for.

12 years we had been working for.

12 years we deserved together.

After Semira left that day, I stayed with Lucille as the medication wore off so we could talk. I felt bittersweet, sad, and a little angry too. This horse had taught me far more than I deserved in this life—I knew I had to be grateful for any time I had with her. But selfishly, this was just a crushing blow.

As I talked to Lucille about her age, and how much more she must have seen in her life than I knew about, the tension eased a bit in my body.

There’s a thought that the electromagnetic field of a horse’s heart is so large that when you’re within it, your heart actually slows down to try and match their slower rhythm.

༄It’s a beautiful thought.༄

I stood leaning on Lucille and rubbing her chest and thought of how much I had been robbed of. My thoughts started piling up and it was starting to look in my mind like I was already losing her. I needed to find another perspective.

I gained it from looking at Lucille’s eyes, soft and connecting to mine as I was desperately looking for something calm to grab onto.

✰I recognized that eye. It was the exact same eye from ten years before in the stall at the SPCA—but now it was different.✰ My first glimpse into that eye, it was cautious, reserved, and skeptical. But the eye I was looking into at that moment was content.

I had what I wanted and had it right now.

Lucille doesn’t even understand the concept of tomorrow, or aging—perhaps even time. All she knows is right now. Of all the lessons this magnificent being has taught me, ↯perhaps this one is shaping up to be the most important.↯

The future is plagued with what-ifs. We’ll never truly know what’s in store for us, no matter how hard we try, no matter what we do to prepare. ➰Right now is where the magic exists.➰

I didn’t need to wait for the future to celebrate Lucille and all she taught me. I can do it now. I can be thankful for the clarity to see the gift of the perspective she has given to me, and I can celebrate today.

Losing twelve years with my spirit animal absolutely is a punch in the gut. Even though I know nothing lasts forever, I was not ready for the realization that my time with this horse would also end.

I felt a mix of emotions as I left the barn, still reeling in my head over the sheer loss of time I was facing. But maybe my perspective was still holding me back.

Perhaps the question I need to ask is: what was I waiting for to happen during those twelve years?

⭑✰✮༄➰;↯(∞⚘️∞+❀️=➰= ❀️ + ∞⚘️∞)↯;➰༄✮✰⭑

What did I need that time to do that I couldn’t do right now?

⭑✰✮༄➰;↯(∞⚘️∞+❀️=➰= ❀️ + ∞⚘️∞)↯;➰༄✮✰⭑

Lucille may be in the sunset years of her life, but she can’t help but teach me every day. Our relationship is a powerful one that goes beyond companionship. Having Lucille in my life has shifted my perspective of the world—changed who I am at my core. ✮The kind of change that lasts forever, the kind that unites our energies beyond time.✮

Lucille’s eye locked onto me the very first time we met, and I felt it deep within my soul. That silent, intentional gaze became my safe space through the trials of life. ↯And the greatest gift of all is what Lucille’s eye taught me to see.↯

She taught me to see her—not as something to be controlled or fixed, but as a being with her own truth, her own boundaries, her own way of existing in the world.

She taught me to see myself—not just in my reflection, but in the way I move through life. When I push too hard. When I need to soften. When I need to trust. She made me better.

She taught me to see time—not as an enemy to outmaneuver, but as something to step into fully, without fear.

⭑Lucille’s eye has been my mirror, my teacher, my guide. And now, as she watches me, I finally understand—she has spent all these years showing me how to truly see.⭑