By BECKY HOPKINS
We were in the middle of a global pandemic when it began again. While others were catching COVID-19, I came down with something just as potent—Horse Fever. A long-dormant, incurable condition I hadn’t experienced in over 30 years came raging back, and there was no vaccine.
As a kid, I was the one who skipped dances and parties to muck stalls and ride ponies. My weekends were spent cleaning tack, attending Pony Club rallies, and riding shotgun with our vet on barn calls. Everyone knew I was headed to vet school to specialize in equine medicine. Then, at 17, everything changed.
Seemingly out of nowhere, I developed severe allergies to horses. My throat would close, my eyes swelled shut, and hives would erupt across my body. It was devastating. I wouldn’t discover the likely trauma-based trigger until decades later, during a mandated teacher training. But at the time, all I knew was that I had lost the thing I loved most.
During COVID, my mom gifted my brother’s granddaughter a riding lesson. When the day finally came, my mom and brother insisted I tag along. “You’ll be masked. Just bring your inhaler. And don’t touch anything!” Famous last words.
The moment I walked into the barn, it felt like coming home. Every part of me ached to touch a velvety nose or run my fingers through a forelock. I lasted five minutes. When no one was looking, I leaned into a horse’s neck.
“Becky! Get away from that horse! We’re in a pandemic—we can’t go to the ER!” my mom yelled, panicked.
But nothing happened. No hives. No wheezing. No tears. I pulled off my mask. I was fine. Actually, I was more than fine. And the Horse Fever? It kicked into full gallop.
A week later, I was back in the saddle.
The first horse I rode after decades away was a 17-hand warmblood mare owned by Hannah, the instructor who’d given my great-niece her first pony ride. I’d love to say it was like riding a bike, but I was a mess—flailing legs, secondhand breeches, and paddock boots that had seen better days. Still, I was grinning so hard my cheeks hurt more than my legs.
Just as I started to find my rhythm, Hannah announced she was relocating to Southern California. My mom had long since sold her own horse, and I was suddenly adrift again. Thankfully, she’d made horsey friends in the San Jose area, and I soon found myself taking lessons with Rachel, a kind and capable trainer just outside the city.
My first lessons were on a lunge line with a sweet Thoroughbred mare. I was hooked. I quickly progressed and began riding a lovely Oldenburg gelding named Oscar. He became my first “return-to-riding” heart horse. I rode after work, relearning the basics, slowly regaining my confidence.
But Oscar was leased to a high school student, and I knew our time was limited. I longed for a horse of my own. As a single mom and a high school teacher in San Jose, that seemed impossible—until my mom stepped in.
“I can’t do much,” she said, “but maybe we can find something for $2,500?”
Thoroughbreds were in my DNA. My parents bred and trained them when I was growing up in Connecticut. We’d had OTTBs and youngsters prepping for the track. So naturally, I turned to Canter, New Vocations, and other rehoming groups.
We met horses from San Jose to Modesto, but none felt right. Then came the call about a spicy 4-year-old chestnut filly.
Her name was Abbey. Gorgeous, athletic, and intense. When I saw her in Vacaville, I knew she wasn’t a match. On the drive home, I rehearsed my polite “thanks, but no thanks” call. And yet, when I picked up the phone, I heard myself say, “I’ll take her.” What?
We started off strong. Groundwork was new to me—it hadn’t been part of the Pony Club culture in the ‘80s—but I dove in. Abbey was clever, sensitive, and forward. I adored her. But then winter came—months of rain, abscesses, and no turnout. Five months passed with hardly any riding, and she grew unpredictable. I lost confidence. Our connection began to fray.
I kept trying. For two years I worked to make it right. I learned so much—about horsemanship, about myself, and the importance of asking for help. But it all came to a head during a Q&A session at the Western States Horse Expo. I asked for guidance, and in doing so, I finally said out loud what I’d known for months: Abbey and I weren’t right for each other. Only I could make the call to let go.
That’s when I started noticing a certain bay gelding—Stanley**—popping up repeatedly in my social media feed. A seasoned OTTB event horse, well beyond my budget, but I couldn’t look away.
Finally, I messaged his owner, Chelsea. “I know I can’t meet your asking price,” I wrote, “but I’d love to talk. I have a background in equine rehab and bodywork. I think I could give him a great home.”
The owner responded. She was honest about Stanley’s limitations and about how difficult it had been to find him the right rider. I told her everything—about Abbey, my doubts, my hopes. She invited me to her barn outside Fresno to try him.
I brought my mom and Hailey, who had once leased Oscar. I needed a clear-eyed rider to put him over fences, and honest feedback about whether I could handle him.
Stanley was striking. His amber eyes made him look like a bay who wanted to be a buckskin, as my mom put it. I was nervous. But the moment I mounted and asked for a canter—something I hadn’t dared in ages—I knew. I wasn’t afraid. I felt ready.
Chelsea saw it too. “He chooses his rider,” she said. “And I think he’s choosing you.”
We agreed on a trade—Abbey for Stanley, and set up payments for the balance (much smaller than I had thought it would be). As the shipping date drew near, guilt crept in. I had made a commitment to Abbey. But I also knew she deserved someone better suited to her intensity. And I needed a partner, not a project.
Some may criticize me for trading my mare for a horse better matched to my skills. But let me ask: would you tell your best friend to stay in a toxic relationship? One that left them anxious, insecure, or unsafe? Of course not. So why do we ask that of equestrians?
Now a year has passed with Stanley. He’s not my “baby”—he’s my partner. He greets me with a deep, throaty nicker. He stands quietly when I need to cry. He tries every single ride.
He’s not without issues—he has some lameness, and his X-rays revealed challenges—but I knew that going in. I manage his care meticulously: PEMF therapy, cold laser, ice boots, professional massages (not by me), chiro, a 6-week shoeing cycle, and more German Horse Muffins than anyone needs (except Stanley, who disagrees).
Just this week, we took our first jump together.
To anyone reading who feels over-horsed and overwhelmed, this story is for you. For adult amateurs trying to come back. For those afraid of judgment. For those who need a Stanley instead of an Abbey. You’re not alone. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do—for yourself and your horse—is to let go and begin again.
