The Words We Hold Onto
How an experience with an animal communicator healed me
A few people in my barn have an animal communicator come out every once in a while. They swear by her. I’ve experienced a lot of unexplainable things in life and so I’m open-minded.
One thing I do believe for sure, though, is that if you leave one of these appointments feeling comforted and with a greater understanding, then that alone can be worth it. And honestly, that’s how I felt.
I had my horse in training with some locally big eventers a few years ago and we struggled a lot. I got multiple concussions. I was told my horse was “probably” neurologic and needed to be on Gabapentin, just in case. One of the trainers told me that “she’s not the horse” for me. And I honestly understand that they were doing the best they could and knew how to do with a barn full of busy competition horses. But I left the barn with a huge hit to my confidence. I never felt like I belonged and ended up dreading going.
When you spend the majority of your time in a space where you don’t feel wanted or appreciated, it can really make your entire life spiral. And for me, it did. I grew to resent everything and everyone. My home life even became shaky.
And the one thing that gnawed on me everyday, long after I left the barn, was, “This is horse is not for you.” The horse I sold all my stocks to buy because I was in my mid-30s during COVID and needed to follow a dream. The horse I spent a year prepping to go to Lexington, Kentucky to compete at the Thoroughbred Makeover. The horse I shed a million tears over. The horse I trusted more than any person, despite being a flight animal. The horse who taught me how to really be a leader and who showed me just how brave and resilient I actually am.
That horse?
When the animal communicator told me, unprompted, that we are a perfect match and my horse thinks we’re great together, I cried. So many other things were said during the session, but that was the one that was important.
And that is the one thing I will hold onto.


