By Emilee Heise
The text message came on a quiet Tuesday afternoon: “I’m planning to sell Mack.” For two years, I had intermittently ridden, leased, and loved this tall, patient, OTTB and suddenly, the horse I had dreamed of calling mine was for sale.
Mack is the adult amateur’s dream. At 17 hands, he fully embodies the gentle giant persona. Despite his intimidating size, he faithfully takes me safely around the arena. Learning to ride his massive trot and to trust him to get me to the other side of the jumps has been a joy, but my favorite moments with him are the quiet ones. I love when he turns his head for a treat after I mount, the way he insists on having his face scratched after the bridle comes off, and our slow, peaceful hand grazing sessions. Mack is not everything I wanted in a horse, but he is everything I needed: safe, kind, and forgiving.
Looking at the text on my phone screen, I pictured quiet hacks on the weekends, his stall with my name below his on the name plate, and even a return to the show ring after retiring my mare three years ago. But as quickly as the excitement had bubbled up, the mental math started. The bills started to add up, and they added up to: not happening.
So, instead of feeling elated, my heart broke as I sent the text back that the timing wasn’t right. My car, while paid off, had just undergone expensive repairs and more maintenance was looming. I was still paying down debt from a brief stretch of partial employment earlier this year. I could make the board, farrier, and vet bills work with razor-thin margins if everything stayed perfect.
But life rarely stays perfect. If something happened and I had to resume paying full expenses for my retiree, if my car finally gave out and I had to take on a monthly payment, if Mack got hurt and joined my mare in early retirement, my carefully balanced budget would collapse. After everything Mack had given me, he deserved more than the tenuous support I could offer him.
A few years ago, I would have said yes anyway. I would have told myself I’d figure it out later, trusting that the pieces would fall into place because I wanted them to. But saying no this time feels like a turning point, a sign that I’ve grown up. I’m choosing stability over impulse and responsibility over wishful thinking. While it hurts, it’s not entirely a loss. It’s a kind of quiet victory. It’s proof that my dream of another horse is strong enough to wait for the right moment rather than forcing the wrong one.
It’s hard not to feel frustrated when I’ve done everything “right.” I went to college, built a career in the nonprofit sector, never glamorous, but meaningful, bought a reliable car and paid it off, and rented a modest apartment. Three days a week after work, I drive to my retired mare’s barn where I feed, muck stalls, and drag pastures for the pleasure of providing her with a safe, loving retirement. I cheer my friends on from the sideline at shows and take every catch ride I can because even after all of the work, I still don’t have a horse I can ride.
But here’s what I’ve learned. Horse ownership doesn’t have to mean risking it all. Saying no to Mack doesn’t make me less of a horsewoman. It means I care enough about my horses and myself to make the decision that keeps us all secure. This is what being a good steward of these animals looks like sometimes. Waiting, working, and preparing for the right time to say yes.
Now, as summer slips into fall, I find myself waiting for Mack’s sale ad to appear and bracing for the goodbye ahead. I could stay angry at the increasingly high cost of horse ownership, at the timing of his sale, at my mare for not being sound enough to ride, and at myself for not being ready. But instead, I’ll savor the time I have left with him, be grateful for my retiree who still greets me with a nicker at the gate, and slow down to breathe in the crisp fall air after a hot and humid southern summer.
Instead of daydreaming about taking Mack to shows and rides with friends, I now think about the day we’ll say goodbye. I hope I can take him to graze one last time under the turning trees. I’ll give his face plenty of scratches, feed him the rest of the blondie treats I buy just for him, and let him go with gratitude.
It’s not my season for another horse, but seasons always turn. One day, it will be, and when it comes, I’ll be ready.
Emilee is an adult amateur from Adrian, Michigan, who loves dressage and occasionally works up the courage to jump. When she’s not writing grants at the office, she can be found at the barn with my retired OTTB, Phillipa, or curled up on the couch with my dog, Oscar.
