I wish I could say ‘time heals’, but it doesn’t. I still miss him every day. I still cry every time I look at his photos. Some days I’ll wake up and simply can’t face a world without him in it. I can’t leave my bed, because, what’s the point? But you don’t get to just lie in bed and hate your empty world forever. It’s like we’re allocated ‘morbidity leave’, and then once it’s over, we lose permission to feel. I don’t get to say ‘I’m not going to work today because I miss my pet who died half a year ago’ - but there are days, so many days, even this far along, that the feeling of grief and loss is still more draining, more paralysing, than any cold or flu or legitimate ailment that excuses you from behaving like a fully-functioning human being. And I want to talk about that.
I want to talk about the days you get on another horse and get off 10 minutes later in tears because it reminds you of your Moo, but it’s not the same. I want to talk about the reminders you set on your calendar for shows you were planning to enter, which you can’t go to now, because your horse is gone. About your fellow competitors on social media moving up grades. Winning shows you wanted to go to. Getting selected for teams you wanted to campaign for, while you’re left far behind, trying to scrounge what’s left of your will to carry on from the ashes of your career. Losing Moo wasn’t losing a pet that leaves an eternal hole in your life. Losing Moo wasn’t losing 8 years of work toward my goals. Losing Moo wasn’t losing all my progress in my career.
It wasn’t losing my one immediate - maybe only - shot at my dreams.
It wasn’t losing a perfect riding partner who brings me joy and inspiration. It was losing all of these things. Suddenly. Shockingly. Horribly. All at once. A horse is never ‘just a horse’. A horse can represent so many different things with so many different values to each individual person. It can be a friend, a dream, a livelihood. You can build entire lives, communities and relationships around a horse. That’s what ‘Team Moo’ meant. Losing him hurt so many people in so many different ways, because of what he represented.
When I first lost him, one of my friends asked, “What are you going to write about now?”
And there it is, right? That about sums it up. He was my inspiration - the foundation my world was built on. Without seeing what funny thing Moo gets up to today, what do I write about? Without Moo to ride, how do I get to those big shows, or train those advanced movements? I can ride other horses. I can write about other things. And from the outside, my life looks like it’s going on the same to other people. But on the inside? Everything is a substitution. I feel like I’m piecing a broken life together with pieces from the wrong puzzles. So here is my public announcement. I’m not doing okay. Yes, even this long after it happened, I’m not. I won’t be for a while, and I don’t want to be. I lost my everything, and I miss him. And there are going to be days that I just want the rest of the world to stop, like mine has. It’s taken me almost a year to write this. To be brave enough to submit it. To full admit to myself that he’s gone, and my life has to go on now without him in it.
Losing a horse - or anyone - isn’t a beautiful story or life lesson full of healing and wisdom. It’s ugly, painful and messy. It’s full of anger and resentment. It’s sobbing into your pillow over how unfair it is that other people are moving forward with their careers while yours has been reset from the start. It’s feeling useless every time you get on another horse because you just don’t want to ‘try’ any more, and hating yourself for it. It’s staring at your boots every morning for ten minutes before putting them on, thinking, ‘should I just give up’, and then carrying on without ever deciding on the answer. It’s not ‘healing’; it’s coping - barely. It’s not ‘feeling better’, it’s shutting up about your feelings when they are no longer fresh enough to be appropriate. Not ‘learning’, but grasping at the faintest hint of anything positive to help you fight through each day of a life that a huge part of you no longer sees the point in.
I’m not okay, and I don’t know if I will be. And I don’t have anything uplifting to say to end this unpleasant and unpopular ‘loss story’. I just want to say that if there are people out there who understand - not in the polite and socially acceptable sense - but in the same raw, ugly, depressed battle of a way that I’ve described here, I hope that you get some comfort from the solidarity of knowing that I feel the same way. Of knowing that I see you. That I acknowledge your pain. That it’s okay for loss to be ugly, and not graceful, and it’s normal for you to not be okay. And if even one person reads this, and reads it all the way to the end, and finishes it thinking, ‘Wow, that Moo must have been a seriously special horse to have had this kind of impact’, then you’re damn right, Friend. And I wish you could have met him. Maybe he never did get the chance to become a legend, but he was one to me. And to honour his legacy, I’m going to keep on keeping on. Keep riding, even when it’s the last thing I want to do. Keep training, even though the goals I once worked towards feel so out of reach.
Thank you for everything, Moo. I’m starting over without you now, but I hope that with everything you taught me, one day I’ll still manage to reach the goals we set together. I promise, for you, I’m going to keep on trying.
Polo, I returned to ponybox and saw this article by you. Read all 8 parts. I am so sorry for your loss. It is tragic, and the pain must be terrible. I remember thinking what a beauty Moony was, and that special connection you had was admirable. I too have had to deal with the loss of a horse who meant the world to me and helped me be who I am, a different connection to that you had but I relate to to that feeling of pain.
"And to honour his legacy, I’m going to keep on keeping on. Keep riding, even when it’s the last thing I want to do. Keep training, even though the goals I once worked towards feel so out of reach."
Whats more to that is you mentioned how that connection meant he seemed to know what you want. For him, the journey and bond you shared was just as real. I'm sure he would want you to continue for your sake (in a way a horse would think such thoughts) and see that what he taught you you could bring forward to others. Very much his legacy lives on, and it lives on thr
Polo, I returned to ponybox and saw this article by you. Read all 8 parts. I am so sorry for your loss. It is tragic, and the pain must be terrible. I remember thinking what a beauty Moony was, and that special connection you had was admirable. I too have had to deal with the loss of a horse who meant the world to me and helped me be who I am, a different connection to that you had but I relate to to that feeling of pain.
"And to honour his legacy, I’m going to keep on keeping on. Keep riding, even when it’s the last thing I want to do. Keep training, even though the goals I once worked towards feel so out of reach."
Whats more to that is you mentioned how that connection meant he seemed to know what you want. For him, the journey and bond you shared was just as real. I'm sure he would want you to continue for your sake (in a way a horse would think such thoughts) and see that what he taught you you could bring forward to others. Very much his legacy lives on, and it lives on through you and that special connection you shared and still have. That is painful, yes, but it is also the beauty of it. We live a life that is fleeting. I, as an archaeologist, study death and traces of what is left and unravel the stories once lived. Those traces can be eternal, and you living out his and yours legacy will only strengthen that trace he left behind.
Stay strong. Though staying strong is also knowing that feeling terrible, sad, and hopeless is a valid emotion to feel. It's real. The strength is letting that exist, but also to motivate you in positive directions.
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