“Mom, how could you have scheduled the dentist today, so I can’t ride!” My teen daughter glared at me. “You know this is my last few weeks to ride her.” At first, I was angry at the disrespect, and then anger morphed into melancholy. My daughter was in her last days with a beautiful mare she had leased for a year. It was the closing of yet another horse-related chapter in her young life. Another life lesson in the art of letting go and grappling with loss. 

Leasing is heartbreak because it ends in a break-up. It made the most financial sense for us to lease because purchasing an appropriate horse felt impossible. Still, guilt sloshes around my insides. 

I’ve walked my daughter through a similar scenario in the past when we sold her first love, her first pony. Though she had outgrown him, and without his sale we could not afford her next partner, the pain of letting him go brought her to her knees. Losing that pony was a level of sadness she hadn’t yet experienced, even more pronounced than losing her grandfather, whom she adored but did not see regularly. 

I bore witness to her devastation at losing the pony, and now, I was watching her go through the emotional upheaval all over again. It was incredibly hard. It dredged up my own past.

I think back to my first love, which wasn’t a boy or a dog. It was my horse, Roo, who was there through all the things. My struggles with a stubborn eating disorder, my parents’ messy divorce, a tumultuous relationship with a boyfriend. There were months at a time when I was so embroiled in life’s drama that I let Roo sit, ignoring him. When I returned to my old friend, we simply picked up where we left off. No explanation needed. He was the glue that helped me piece the parts of myself together again when I shattered. 

Over the past 12 months, my daughter’s lease mare was that same constant for her. The mare helped her survive her last year of middle school, transition to high school and grapple with two of her best friends leaving the barn. As she navigated the turbulence of teen angst, this chromed-out warmblood with soul-searching eyes stood by. 

Of course, there is the riding. My daughter moved up a division with “her” mare. The pair attended an away show, a first for my kid. They won ribbons. But even more meaningful is how my daughter came to know true partnership. 

It was rocky at the start of the lease. There were many moments they didn’t gel as a pair. I even questioned if we had made a grave mistake. But my daughter came to recognize and respect the way her mare wanted to be ridden. Once she figured out this horse’s language, she earned her trust. The mare grew willing to give the best of herself to my daughter. 

I thought about how much my daughter has matured and grown over their year together, and how this mare had facilitated her growth, as will all the horses yet to come.

Their partnership transcended saddle time. Every time I received the text, “Mom, I’m ready,” I’d mad-dash to the barn to find the girl was NEVER ready. Often, she was in the stall with her horse, hugging her, stroking her neck, nuzzling her, loving her, enjoying her presence.  

The entire last month of her lease, we existed in countdown mode: Last show together. Last lesson together. The last, the last, the last. I felt like my heart was on the verge of exploding, because I know the pain of letting a horse go.

During that last week of my daughter’s lease, however, it dawned on me that there was an option other than dwelling in the sadness of the loss. We could celebrate the beautiful year as well. 

I watched their last lesson on a breezy sun-soaked day. I captured the lesson on video for my daughter to look back on. All the pieces, everything they had worked on for months, came together in the ring. “You rode great,” her trainer said. I was happy. My daughter was happy. We took funny pictures on the crossties.

“She is perfect,” my daughter remarked, hugging her mare like it was the last time. 

Two days later, the very last day of the lease, I bought a bright flowery cake, more celebratory than sad. The cake’s inscription read, “It was the best year.” I took my daughter to the store to buy hot pink plates and napkins. She picked a thank-you card to give to her trainer, who owns the horse. We brought a giant bag of carrots. 

That night, my daughter turned to me, “If I’m grumpy tomorrow, please don’t take it personally. It’s not you. I’m just so sad.”

“I know, honey.” I acknowledged. 

“I’m trying to look at this not as an end but as a new beginning,” she said and half-smiled, attempting to convince herself.

We’ve been looking for a horse to purchase for my daughter. I want to believe that if we find this horse in a hurry, it will erase the pain of losing her mare. But I know this is a fallacy. No horse ever erases another. The next horse is not a replacement; it is a next chapter.

Jamie Sindell has an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and has ridden and owned hunters on and off throughout her life. She is a mom of five kids, ages 3 to 14. She and her family reside at Wish List Farm, where her horse-crazy girls play with their small pony, Cupcake, and her son and husband play with the tractor.