My journey with horses started out almost the very moment I turned eight years old, which was the absolute youngest you could be to start lessons at the only barn within a 45 minute drive from my suburban home. I had the horse bug, as most young girls do, that grew stronger as the days went on. Fast forward a bit, I adopted Reese, a chestnut mare, from a horse rescue out in East Texas. She was rescued starving and pregnant from a neglect case and was quite a passionate little thing from what I have heard about her early days at the rescue. She was in training for 5 years and somehow ended up taking a liking to a lanky 13 year old with maroon glasses who was starry-eyed over her rich red coat and little white marking on her chest.
As the years unfolded, Reese became my most steadfast friend. All throughout middle school and highschool she listened patiently as I vented about my friend drama as I groomed her and picked the largest sticker burrs from her mane and tail. She was my sounding board as I decided which boys to date, and which boys not to date, as I scooped up manure from her pasture. She and our other mare, Blondie, carried my sister and I around (bareback most of the time) through the tumultuous years of college as well. Coming home was incredibly exciting because we got to go to the barn together and see our beloved mares who had grown nice and round without constant exercise.
During my senior year of college, I discovered a lump on my neck. After weeks of frustrating doctor’s visits later, a biopsy confirmed what I had already known: cancer. I moved home quickly and started treatment, not only leaving my best friends and date parties and the silliness of college, but also leaving behind a past version of myself.
Most of my life has been processed in the saddle, and this was no different. Soon after my diagnosis, my sister and I loaded up the trailer and set out on our favorite trails with our girls. The early days post-diagnosis are surreal, filled with uncertainty. There was no information about the specific kind of cancer I had or the progression of it. No picture of what treatment would look like. This season was filled with more questions than answers and a whole lot of silence. So, off we went, on our routine little adventure through the October woods we would do each weekend we came home to visit our parents. That deafening silence was soon filled with hoof beats and a saddle that always squeaks, and then simple conversation. A little laughter later, too.
Months go on, I am deep into my rounds of chemotherapy. Didn’t have much hair left, or eyebrows and eyelashes for that matter. I was really weak and everything hurt. I was sad, too. And felt really alone, as this truly was something that few people my age could relate to. But also, I felt really lucky about the support I had with my family and access to medical care.
Though my memories from that time are a bit hazy, I do remember the solace I found from being in the barn. The first day I would feel somewhat alright after chemo, I would have my mom drive me out to the horses. The walk down to the pasture would take just about everything I had in me, but it was so worth it to get to nuzzle into the neck of my chestnut mare. She often greets me with a smile– a trick I taught her when I was 13. I think it’s really annoying now, because she does it at the most strategic times to make me laugh when I am asking her to do something she may not want to do or is confused about. But my cancer months, she was always smiling at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back.
It became a ritual for me to ride each night before my next round of chemo. Tacking up my horse independently was the hardest thing I pushed myself to do during those months, but being in the saddle felt like taking my life back a bit somehow. I know I am strong, but it was hard to feel it during those months. Not when I was riding my horse though. I felt strong and sure, the most like myself I ever felt during those cold winter months.
I had always viewed myself as Reese’s protector. Someone to advocate for her and hold the space for her to feel safe after all she had gone through as a rescue horse with a heartbreaking past. It never occurred to me that she was doing the same for me all along. Through the awkward years of braces and insecurities, she was there. Through every breakup, friendship hardship, prom and homecoming, she was there. Through the transition to college, she was there. Through my entire treatment, she was there. And, she still, is here. A little slower than she used to be. Her joints crack a bit and her used-to-be luscious mane is short from a recent battle with sweet itch, that happened right when I was losing my hair, too. As I have navigated postgrad and cancer survivorship, she is there. The same little feisty red mare who has grown up with me for the last 11 years. Reese’s friendship is one of the greatest gifts I have ever had, and one of the most tangible ways I know I am loved and cared for in this world.
So, here’s to the smiling horses! I hope you know the joy of them, too. I hope you are able to draw both strength and compassion through your own interactions with horses as well. It is a treasure that I hope I never take for granted.
Much love to all my fellow horse people out there!
Miranda Reeves