In April of 2012, I made a small, spontaneous choice that would change the course of my life. It was a beautiful spring day in Montana, the sun was warm, the horses were shedding winter coats, and I was out in the pasture brushing them. Stormy stood by a large boulder, head low, grazing. I don’t know what got into me—maybe it was the feeling of freedom, or just the simple joy of being with my horses—but I decided in a sudden fit of spontaneity, to climb on his back. No halter. No saddle. Just me and him and a wide-open space.
At first it felt harmless. He took a few easy steps, then broke into a trot. No big deal. But then, without warning, he launched into a full-blown gallop. I thought I could ride it out until he slowed of his own accord, but the fence grew closer and closer, he rolled back along the fence at full speed—once, then again, then again, each time I thought we were going to crash. I clung to him, but I didn’t think I could stay on another turn.
I bailed.
I aimed for what looked like soft sand, but just beneath the surface was a huge boulder. I somersaulted over it like some crazed acrobat. Then I laid still, staring up at the wide blue sky. I couldn’t feel my legs. I looked down, willing my feet to move. They twitched. Relief flooded me. I rolled to my stomach, crawled to a nearby telephone pole, and pulled myself upright. My legs felt like air—there, but not there. Somehow, I made it the short distance to my house where my fiancé was getting ready for the day.
It was ten long hours of arguing, reasoning, and pleading before he finally snapped. I had planted my boots like roots, arms crossed, insisting I was fine—just sore, just tired, just stubborn. But he saw through it. Saw the pain in my eyes I was too proud to admit. Finally, without another word, he grabbed my coat, opened the truck door, and said, “You’re going—whether you want to or not.” Pride may have kept me standing, but love got me in that truck.
After surgery that bolted my spine from L1 to L3, I spent four raw, miserable days in the hospital. Then they sent me home strapped into a plaster brace like a turtle shell. I refused the wheelchair. Stubbornness? Pride? Damn right. But I still needed a walker, dragging myself forward with sheer upper-body strength and pure will.
Recovery was a war. Every day demanded more than I thought I had—physically, emotionally, spiritually. I had to fight to rebuild my strength, retrain my balance, and swallow the truth that some parts of me might never come back. But I didn’t quit.
Because riding — the rush of chasing the wind, the wordless rhythm between horse and rider — that fire lives in my bones. And I wasn’t about to let it die.
A few short months after the accident, I climbed onto Liberty. She wasn’t what most would call sweet, but she had a way of knowing- sharp, honest, and steady. She made it her job to take care of me when I couldn’t fully take care of myself. My legs felt like air, useless and foreign beneath me, but Liberty understood, she never let me fall.
It would be another three months before I gathered the courage to climb back on Stormy. I was still numb from the waist down, but I could hear my dad’s voice in my head: “You just saddle up and ride anyway,” like something straight out of a John Wayne movie. Stormy stood like a gentleman, calm and grounded, he flicked an ear, tuned in to me. I could still sense the fire there, just beneath the surface—his love for running, his boldness—but in that moment he quieted it all and matched my fragile strength with his own. I took a deep breath, grabbed hold of the reins, and leaned into the ride—air for legs and all.
Two years later, I was back in the arena with Stormy, back at it, chasing dreams and entering competitions. My body moved differently. My awareness had deepened. But I was riding. And I was racing. That first run back was more than a ride — it was a reclamation.
Perseverance doesn’t always look like victory. Sometimes, it looks like getting up off the ground and deciding this won’t be the end.