January 25, 2024 
“Arab, Brabant, Cleveland Bay, Dartmoor, Exmoor, Fell.”
When sleep eludes me, I list off horses in my head. I come up with a breed for every letter of the alphabet, or by type—draft horses on one side of my brain, anything under 14.2 on the other, and then standard-size horses in the middle.
Other times, it will be by country, discipline, or color. Even the names of equines from books. Heck, anything to get whatever stupid thing I did or failed to do out of my head so that when sleep finally bangs a hoof on the stall door of my mind, I can give in.
Sometimes, when I do this, I remember the little girl version of myself who started the habit. That little girl was both horseless and lucky enough to have horse-owning relatives who let her ride. She rode her bike miles alone just to look at horses across a stranger’s property and spent most of summer camp petting an elderly donkey because it was the only equine on the property she was allowed to touch without supervision. She read every equine-related book she could get a hold of. She cut out images of horses from magazines and taped them to her bedroom wall.
Horses, horses, horses, anything for horses.
I think of young adult me, too. The version who believed that a horse of my own would never be in my grasp and, even if it were, that it would lead to my ruin. The one convinced that my equine access depended on the good grace of other people. Some of those individuals were safe, some were not.
Like everyone else on this temporal plain, those younger Gretchens get further and further in the rear-view mirror as time passes. During my waking life now, that list of horses turns into to-do lists, emails to answer, bills, trying to remember to take my ADHD meds, and wondering what ailment age is going to throw at me next.
However, I often remind myself that those other versions of me would faint if they saw my life today.
There is a section of my closet just for riding clothes and a trunk in the back room full of tack. Eight-year-old me would have fainted from joy, as would 25-year-old me.
“You got the horse you always wanted?”
“You show?”
“You have lots of people who love you, cheer you on in triumphs, and pick you back up when you fail? No freaking way.”
I am lucky for that younger version of me, though. Those earlier editions made me better with people, better at problem-solving, and more grateful. Without those girls who begged, borrowed, and put themselves in stupid situations more than once, I wouldn’t be the equestrian I am now.
Recently, I was leading my horse to the mounting block while my trainer taught a little girl a lesson. “Is that her horse?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” the trainer replied. “She worked hard for that horse too.”
