Jenna has been a godsend. It took me weeks to build up the courage to mount a horse again. I wasn’t afraid of riding—not really—I was afraid of not being able to control where I was riding to.
So, week after week, I held the reins while Jenna guided the horse around me in slow circles, letting me control the space, letting me feel safe again. Letting me learn Honey’s movements. Letting me relearn trust. And one afternoon, after I fed Honey an apple, and she gave this soft little whinny that felt like reassurance, I finally swung my leg over her back.
I’ve been riding with Jenna ever since.
Honey lets out a soft sigh. Jenna says that’s her relaxed cue, but really, I’m the one who’s relaxed. To me, Honey’s a warm, steady body beneath my legs, swaying gently like water rocking a small boat. I smile, because tonight, when I slip into bed, I know I’ll still feel her rhythm in my bones, much like it was as a child getting off a trampoline and I could still feel the bounce under my feet long after I got off.
The reins brush against my fingers, where I’m loosely holding onto the saddle. Before, when I used to get off Honey, my hands pretty much needed to be extracted from the saddlehorn because I was holding on so tight. Now, it’s more about the sensory input from the leather beneath my palms. Jenna guides us around a bend I’ll never see. But here, at the sanctuary, I don’t need to. Sunlight warms my shoulders in little bursts as we ride through patches of shade. A breeze touches my cheek, carrying the scent of pine, horse sweat, and the faintest hint of apples from the orchard downhill.
Honey’s gait is slow and steady. Moments like this almost make me forget the dividing line of my life: the person I was before the accident, and the person I’ve been learning, slowly, painfully, to become.
“This is nice,” I murmur.
“It is,” Jenna says with a smile in her voice. “Your posture gets better every week. Look at you. Riding like a pro again.”
“You know, Jenna, you’re just too sweet. Next, you’ll tell people I can dunk a basketball and wrestle bears.”
“Not today. That’s next month’s program.”
I snort. Honey shifts as if she approves of my comedic timing.
But today is different. And for the first time in a long time, I’m nervous again.
Today is supposed to be the next step. The big step.
Today is my seeing-eye dog evaluation.
Six months of debating it. Three months of telling myself I wasn’t ready. One month of reading every disability blog I could find.
And now I’m here sitting on Honey, trying to convince myself I’m brave.
“Nervous?” Jenna asks.
It’s casual, teasing, but it cuts through me all the same. How can she know what I am feeling while I’m here trying on my poker face?
“About riding?” I try forcing lightness I no longer feel.
She snorts and I can feel her rolling her eyes. “You know about what. Your future partner.”
My future partner.
Hearing it out loud twists something in my chest. Fear mixed with want mixed with belief I’m afraid to claim. Could this be what I need?
My fingers curl around the saddle, the leather warm under my palms. “Terrified,” I admit. “But… hopeful.”
“Good.” Jenna’s smile is audible. “That means you’re ready.”
Ready.
God, I wish I believed her.Readysounds like a word meant for stronger people. People whose lives didn’t collapse under them. People who didn’t have to relearn how to exist every time they stepped outside.
Honey slows, then stops dead in her tracks.
Her whole body goes rigid underneath me, muscles coiling, trembling like a bow pulled too tight. She snorts. The shift is so sudden, so absolute, that the hair on my arms stands on end.
My breath snags. “Jenna? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” But that’s not what her tone says.
