Inside, the building feels warm and cozy. Soft couches. Big windows. Photos lining the walls—kids with animals, teens pressed against horses, adults smiling. It’s homey.
“This is our main gathering space,” Julia says. “We have group sessions here, and it’s where we do fundraisers or community-wide outreach.”
My gaze catches on a photo of a teenage girl resting her forehead against a horse’s cheek, eyes closed. She looks so peaceful, so serene. That’s what I want for Bella.
“In the form you filled out, you said you were interested in therapy for your daughter?”
I nod, not taking my eyes away from the picture. “Bella,” I say, my voice quieter now. “She lost her dad a few years ago.”
Julia doesn’t rush me. She waits, her expression gentle. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “That kind of loss reshapes everything.”
I swallow hard. “She doesn’t talk about it much. She talks about her dad all the time. She actually talks to him. It’s a little weird, but it works for her, you know? I want her to get some tools to heal. We tried play therapy, cognitive therapy, and she didn’t click with either. So I wanted to try something else.”
Julia nods.
“She doesn’t do well with pushing or anything like that. She marches to the beat of her own drum, if that makes sense.”
“Horses help with that,” Julia says. “They don’t need explanations. They respond to what you feel, not what you say. So even if she doesn’t want to talk much, there’s so much good work she can do here.”
She leads me toward the barn, and the moment we step inside, something in my chest loosens. The scent of hay, the soft sounds of animals shifting—it feels grounding, like my nervous system recognizes safety before my mind catches up. I know instantly she would love this.
“This is Maple,” Julia says as a chestnut horse leans over the stall door.
I reach out instinctively, my fingers brushing her warm nose, as emotion surges, fast and unexpected.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“She’s part of our teen group,” Julia says. “We work mostly with adolescents who’ve experienced grief or trauma. Bella is at the perfect age to start.”
“What do they do?” I ask.
“Groundwork, mostly. Grooming. Leading. Learning trust. Horses reflect everything we’re afraid to say out loud. They learn to lean on each other. It’s the closest thing to magic I’ve ever seen.”
We move through the barn, Julia introducing me to each horse, explaining their personalities. Outside, a large field opens, dotted with simple obstacles.
“This is where we do group work,” she says. “Especially with teens.”
I picture Bella here, and my heart immediately knows this is the right call.
“What do you think?”
I smile. “I think this would be a good fit for her.”
I catch Julia staring fondly at me. “Is there something wrong?”
Julia studies me for a moment. “I can see why he wants to talk about you,” she says gently.
“Who?”
“Holden.”
My heart stutters. “He does?”
“He does,” she repeats. “Even when he’s not sharing with words, he’s different now. And I can see why. You’re light. I can sense it, and so can they.” She points to the horses. “You’re a good mom too.”
Emotion rushes up, hot and sudden. “I don’t always know what I’m doing,” I admit. “I can’t let her disappear into her grief, though. If she keeps burying it, it will come back out to haunt her.” As it does me, I want to add, but this is not for me. This is about her.
She hesitates, her mouth opening and closing, but eventually, she adds, “We also have a parent support group. And volunteer opportunities. We’re very intentional about including parents, so if you want to join too, you can.”
