Three months ago, I unexpectedly entered into a relationship with a horse.
I met Zor during a visit to Liberty Stables in Florida, where I had gone to spend time with a friend’s horses. I had no particular expectations. I have no background with horses, no training, and no experience in equine-assisted therapy. I simply met this magnificent Friesian, and something quietly familiar unfolded between us.
I fell in love.
Not in the dramatic way we sometimes use that phrase, but in the quiet recognition of feeling unexpectedly at home in the presence of another living being.
When I returned a few months later, I wondered whether he would remember me.
He did.
I have found a deep contentment in being with Zor. Grooming him in his stall. Massaging his neck and shoulders. Singing softly while he lowered his great head to graze. Standing beside him without needing anything from him. I have never asked Zor to attend to me, carry me, or teach me. His quiet companionship has awakened something joyful in me. That has been enough for me.
One afternoon, I carried my chair into the pasture and placed it beneath the shade of a tree.
It was one of those Florida afternoons where the heat seems to shimmer above the grass. The horses grazed quietly under an endless blue sky. I settled into my chair, content to watch the horses, listen to the birds, and perhaps take a nap. As I entered the pasture, Zor lifted his head and followed me with his eyes. Once I was seated beneath the tree, he returned to grazing.
For a long while I simply sat. My body softened. My mind became quiet. My eyes sometimes closed as I listened to the song of nature.
After a while I noticed that Zor had slowly changed position. He moved in a gentle arc that gradually brought him closer.
Having heard stories about the way he sometimes greeted people, I stood and stepped in front of him to say hello. I preferred not to discover what happens when a two-thousand-pound horse decides to make his presence known by tipping over my chair.
Once met, he returned to grazing.
I remained beneath the tree to have my scheduled phone session with a client. It had been a rough week. Testing revealed that the tumors in her body had grown.
As painful as the diagnosis itself was the experience of trying to receive care. Tests were delayed. Decisions postponed. Phone calls unanswered. She wasn’t simply carrying cancer. She was carrying the exhaustion of trying to find her way through a medical system that seemed unable to meet her with clarity or care.
The phone in my back pocket, an AirPod in one ear, one hand rested on my heart, and the other rested on his.
Quietly, in my own awareness, I introduced them and returned to listening. Zor continued grazing as we moved together across the pasture.
Eventually he wandered beneath a small tree, stopped grazing, and looked directly at me.
For the remainder of our conversation, I stroked his face while listening to this lovely woman navigate this challenging season of her life.
In time, something softened. Her voice became lighter as we moved from frustration toward the next small steps before her. Zor remained completely still beneath my hand. No one hurried the conversation.
This exchange included two humans, a horse, birdsong, the warm sun, and a gentle breeze. Everything belonged.
Toward the end of our conversation, Zor lifted his head, gave a great snort, and calmly returned to grazing. My client heard it through the phone. She laughed, as did I. “I think we’re complete,” she said. Reminding me how her dog always knew our conversation was ending a few minutes before we said goodbye.
“Please thank that horse for me.”
I returned to my chair beneath the tree and closed my eyes. For a long moment I simply rested in that experience.
There is no miraculous ending to this story.
I don’t know whether that afternoon changed her treatment, her health, or even her day. I don’t need to know. I only know that I was part of something beautiful.
A woman seeking healing. A horse quietly grazing. One hand resting on my own heart. The other resting on his.
Three hearts participating in the same quiet field of presence.
Peace be with you and with all. No exceptions.
When to help and when to sit back as witness? With so much suffering in the world, you feel called to improve the lives of others. Hard to know what helps and what doesn’t. The book, Toxic Charity, sheds insight into the disempowering effects of well meaning aid to others. Creating sustainable change which respects and empowers not only the person or community, but the gains achieved through struggle, is an art form. Exploring the personal reasons for helping as well as deep listening to a community’s needs goes a long way to discern if, when, and how to offer your service. Empowering growth and self sufficiency.
Learn the one essential skill that allows you to face any challenge with confidence, sturdiness, and inner calm.
More than a technique. It’s a game changer.
Over the past several months, I have been immersed in conversation with women. In therapy sessions, Via Sophia circles, and at dinner tables. During walks, ceremonies, and quiet moments after gatherings have ended. I’ve been listening as stories unfold. Different women. Different lives, histories, and circumstances. Yet beneath the details, I keep hearing a remarkably similar story. Many women are tired.
Last week, I left the house a little earlier than usual.
Not because the day ahead was spacious. Quite the opposite. It was full. Appointments, responsibilities, errands to run, bags still to pack for my upcoming conference. One of those days where the hours already seem spoken for before they even begin.
And yet, before leaving, I found myself lingering in the garden.
The overgrown bushes had finally been removed, opening up an entire section of the bed I hadn’t really seen clearly in years. New flowers and shrubs had recently been planted, and I stood there for a few moments appreciating the fresh openness of it all. The morning light and the possibility of adding a few colorful blossoms. The beauty of something being tended and made new.
There comes a moment when something within you begins to shift.
Not because life is failing. Not because you have done something wrong. But because what once felt meaningful no longer feels like enough.
Many women arrive at this threshold quietly. Others experience it more viscerally, through exhaustion, change, loss, longing, or the growing realization that the life they have carefully built no longer fully reflects who they are becoming.
You may already feel this happening within you now.
A few months ago, when the world was cold and the snow came often, I left for work a little earlier than usual.
The roads had already been plowed, but I knew better than to assume they were clear. That kind of winter morning holds a particular deception. The pavement looks clean, almost dry, while a thin layer of ice waits invisibly beneath.
I was mostly alone on the road.
Some days don’t announce themselves as anything more than what they are.
My husband and I celebrated our wedding anniversary last weekend with a trip to New York City to see Every Brilliant Thing with Daniel Radcliffe.
You arrive in Venice the way you always arrive in places that have lived longer than memory can hold.
Not just by plane or train, but by stepping into a rhythm already in motion.
