The motivation behind creating this blog came from surprising insights after a horse-riding accident forced me to end my “horse-focused” lifestyle. I was reluctant about when to publish and share it. I think I was waiting for things to feel right, to know my voice better, or to understand the messages I hoped to share and convey.
Shortly after setting it up, my last beloved horse, Dusty, left this earth. It was a surprise, though not entirely, and it hit hard.
Another loss. And a final one. My last horse…. gone.
I haven’t fully processed it yet. It will be a year in a few weeks.
Once we made the monumental move north to south in 2021, a lot of “unfair” things seemed to happen. It felt like navigating nonstop loss.
You know those rides you regret taking at the carnival? The ones that look fun until you get on and the ride starts. You’re suddenly aware that you hate it and want off immediately. But you can’t get off; you’re strapped in, stuck. That’s what moving to Florida from New Hampshire felt like. Losing Dusty was just another insult upon other insults and injuries that felt non-stop since pulling out of the driveway of my farm.
Cue my alternate and more reasonable “Voice Number Two.” The voice hovering on the sidelines, listening to me whine about how tough my life is, then taps me gently on the shoulder.
“First-world problems,” it smiles at me. Which is true, I guess.
I’m so sad my beloved Dusty is gone. But then again, I must remember I was lucky to have had a horse at all.
It’s not like a family member is battling for their life. No one I know has been maimed, and a fire hasn’t destroyed my home. There is undoubtedly MUCH worse going on in the world.
But still. Dusty is gone. My sweet Dusty-Do. Gone.
He was the one living being with whom I could spend time and be guaranteed to feel better just for being in his presence. I would wrap my arms around him, feel his warm neck soften into me, and know he loved me like I loved him. Scratching his belly and seeing him stretch his head straight out, lips curled, always made me laugh out loud. Sometimes, he’d lift one leg up high to tell me where to scratch next.
He was such a good boy. SUCH a good boy.
I’m glad he didn’t suffer. But I’m sad our lives went the way they did. I’m sad he wasn’t in my backyard those last two years. I’m sad I wasn’t part of his every day.
The truth, however, is he was none the worse for any of what I feel sad about. He had girlfriends, sunshine, and a giant grass paddock with buddies at night. He had other people who loved him dearly and doted on him daily. Little kids were always running around him, squealing and loving on him. Oh, how he loved little kids.
Dusty had a GRAND final year.
There is much comfort in that.
So, what do I do with my grief? With this tense anger I feel? With the blankness? With this weird mix of emotions?
Here’s what I do. Or at least try to do.
I pause.
I give my feelings space, let them be what they are, and try to honor their role while simultaneously focusing my energy on things I know are healthy.
Things like a good night’s sleep. Prayer. Exercise. Good food. Mindless sitcoms at night if I feel like tuning out. Podcasts that uplift or educate me. Blasting music while I drive or bounce (aka dance) on my rebounder. Crying when I have to. Getting up and moving so I don’t get stagnant.
I’m proud of myself for spending time on at least some of these things.
My focus is on losing weight and gaining faith. I use a prayer app called Hallow daily, which helps keep my faith at the forefront. It helps reset my thoughts for a good period of time, sometimes all day. I use my rebounder almost every day, along with potentially dangerously but invigorating loud music. I stay mindful of what I eat, track my food with the Noom app, and try to make good choices.
I slip, for sure. But I give myself grace when I do—remembering the big picture.
I have to walk or sprint away from situations that create unhealthy tension.
However, overcoming difficulties is not always immediately possible, as we all know. When things heat up, such as escalating conversations, technical problems, etc., I often escalate from 0 to 60 in a nanosecond internally if I can't remove myself. It’s not pretty.
In those times, I apologize, give myself more grace, and do my best to let it pass like water under a bridge.
I’ve warned loved ones that I’m a bit of a loose cannon on some days. It seems losing Dusty caused a snowball effect of re-accumulating every loss from the past few years. This “grief snowball” plummets down the hills of my every day when set off, taking any and everything in its path down with it.
Grief is complicated. I know mine is not just about losing Dusty. It is cumulative grief. It’s grief for the loss of other loved ones, for losing a lifestyle I loved and thought I’d be embracing forever, for leaving the farm and home we built and adored, for missing an area I grew up and lived in for decades, and for years that are now behind me.
I found some interesting information when researching. They’re called the “three C’s” of grief.
Choose, Connect, and Communicate
A sense of loss of control often accompanies grief.
However, we can still CHOOSE. We can choose what is good for us, what we are capable of doing or not doing, and acknowledge the truth of how we feel.
Choosing gives us control.
Grief makes us want to isolate ourselves when we are in pain. But it’s essential to keep our CONNECTIONS. As humans, we are wired for connection. We crave it.
Make sure to stay connected, even if it’s to a lesser degree. Connections help us as we go through the difficult journey of grief. Let friends visit, meet someone for coffee, and force yourself to see people with whom you can be yourself, even if just for a little while.
Lastly, hard as it is, it’s important to COMMUNICATE. Tell others what you do or don’t need, answer when they call to see how you’re doing, yell, scream, or cry with a close friend. DON’T suffer in silence.
Do what you must to remember these three important Cs of grief.
I tucked those tidbits into my pocket for future reference down the road.
So now, months since losing Dusty, I take day by day, keep my eyes on what’s next right now, and stay in a lane that keeps me focused on healthy habits. I breathe in and out. I remember and let go.
Over and over.
A picture of my Dusty hangs where I can see his sweet face every day. A piece of his braided tail hangs on my floor mirror so I can run my fingers over it from time to time.
Til we meet again, my sweet boy…….
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