I’m not a Trad Wife, and I don’t feed the farm animals dressed like Donna Reed. But here I am anyway, living out in the country, on a hobby farm, sprouting greens in my kitchen, and collecting eggs from my chicken coop. If you’d told me this would be my life, even a few years ago, like most women, I’d have laughed out loud – and privately, I’d have thought you might need a med check.
It all started with a podcast. I was listening to We Can Do Hard Things in my car, and Glennon, Abby, and Sister were talking about how men never stop playing, while women end up forgetting how. We get buried under the load of arranging fun for everyone else. I had to pause it for a second.
It hit me like a brick. I realized I’d done that: I’d forgotten what made me light up outside of being The Mom, The Wife, The Professional. If I could spend a day doing something that made me lose time, that made me smile, that healed me a little, what would it be? When I was a kid, what one thing would make me run to the car faster than anything on Earth? That’s easy: going to see the horses at my Grandpa’s house. It had been years since I’d been around horses for more than a trail ride here and there, so I started looking for volunteer opportunities that would let me just be around them. I ended up scheduling one morning a week off work, and spending it at a local rescue barn.
At first, I mainly mucked out stalls, dropped hay, and helped pass out feed, but it was the best thing I’d done in years. When I got to groom several horses for an event the next day, I almost cried at how peaceful, how put-back-together, I felt when I left. I smiled for hours, even though I had to rush home and shower off the hay and manure smell before heading back to work. And then I met Dove.
Dove is a bay quarter horse mare who came into the rescue with a large group of terribly neglected horses; she was one of only three that were able to be saved. Even then, it was a crap shoot: would this emaciated, lice ridden, blind horse even live? I broke the cardinal rule of rescue, and I fell in love with her. I started staying after my volunteer shift to just stand in her stall with her, to brush her, and sing to her. Over the next few weeks of care from the dedicated staff, she started gaining weight. They treated her lice. Her shine started coming back. In short, Dove was beautiful, and she wanted to live, so she did.
Was there any way in the world I could adopt her? Boarding her wasn’t financially feasible, and we lived in the suburbs. I couldn’t exactly pop her in the back of my mom-SUV and take her home to stay in my backyard. And then the barn manager broke the news: Dove was going to be adopted, along with another older horse. They would be pasture pets for an older couple moving to Kentucky. While that sounded ideal for her, I was heart broken. I knew she couldn’t stay in the shelter forever, but in my heart, she was my girl.
I kept volunteering after she left, and I enjoyed it as much as I ever did, even if I did miss Dove. Then, as quickly as she’d left the shelter, she was back. The folks who had adopted her returned her, as sometimes happens, and she was so anxious, she couldn’t stand still in a stall. It was like she wasn’t even the same animal. I resumed the stall-standing, the singing, the quiet talks with her. I came in on Sundays, when nobody else was there, to try and remind her that she didn’t need to be so tightly wound, that she could relax, as I brushed her. And I started looking for land with a barn.
We sold our suburban house, and moved to the country, because I met a horse that I needed to bring home. My husband grew up in rural West Virginia, so it really wasn’t much of a stretch to get him out of the city, and he didn’t balk at bringing a blind horse home, but it was still a big move. Now we have a collection of animals, and Dove is living her best life out here, quietly keeping everyone in line, including my country husband.
I know not everyone can upend their entire life to move to the boondocks, but the level of peace it has brought me – along with a healthy helping of weight bearing exercise – is immeasurable. Anyone can sprout salad on their kitchen counter, though (there’s another blog post about that, ha). I highly recommend the sprouting, but more importantly, I recommend finding the thing that sets you alight, because you deserve to feel the kindling in your spirit. And you never know – it might just change your life.
Special thanks to The Kentucky Humane Society’s Willow Hope Farm, who rescued my Dovey, and made this beautiful story possible.
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