Riding Out the Storms

The calendar I was staring at blurred. It wasn’t until I blinked and felt the wet track down my cheek that I realized I was crying.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry.” There was no apology in his tone, though—only accusation. “What did I say to upset you this time?”

‘This time’. As though it happened often; as though I commonly allowed the feelings I kept tightly locked away to leak out.

“I don’t know,” I lied. Then, needing to get it out, I admitted, “It’s just…I feel like you don’t really hear me. Like you don’t really see me.”

He was rolling his eyes before I’d finished my sentence. “Ah, come on! This again?”

“Yes, this again. This is what’s wrong. I need you to listen to me—to hear me, Tom. I know you love me in your own way. It’s just…sometimes I feel your way isn’t loving me the way I need to be loved. It’s hard to explain. I know we have a good life, but…” I shook my head, then pressed my fingertips into my temples. Pressure was again building behind my eyes, and I blinked to push the tears back down.

“It’s like you have this image of who your wife is, or should be. Sometimes I don’t think it matters that it was me you ultimately married; your vision for your wife would have been the same, no matter who the character was. I feel like you’ve spent all these years trying to form me into a mold of your mind’s making. Shaving off pieces of me here and there, trying to craft the image that fits your ideal. But I don’t fit.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

I sighed, and found myself wishing, for the millionth time, that he would hear and understand me. “I know you don’t see things the same way I do, Tom. But really, if you look at our patterns…”

He stood abruptly, then grabbed his coat off the hook by the door. “I’m really not in the mood to stand here and listen to this. If you think you’re so hard done by, maybe we need to take a step back and see what it is we want out of life. I thought it was something together, but you sure seem to think I’ve made you become something you’re not. Don’t let me be the piece of shit that holds you back anymore, Lydia.”

I jumped when the door the slammed shut, then pressed my eyes closed. I should have kept my damn mouth shut and slapped a bandaid on our marriage like all the times I had before. For some reason, he couldn’t see I was the peacekeeper, working to make sure we stayed married—sometimes happily, sometimes not— no matter the personal cost to me.

I glanced at my watch, then pushed myself to my feet. I didn’t want to deal with whatever my doctor needed to tell me at the appointment she’d insisted I make, but I knew the tricks my mind would play on me—the worse case scenarios I could dream up with the knowledge that my doctor wanted to see me, but without the info as to why that was—if I cancelled.

I drove slowly, meandering through the streets, allowing my thoughts to drift back to my marriage. Had I paid too great a price? I’d strayed away from my former self and became who I needed to be to fit the mold. I’d figured that was the trade off for comfort and a stable life; I allowed myself to be tamed. I surrendered my free spirit ways, and eventually, everything I’d ever been afraid of caught up with me: losing myself by morphing into someone else’s ideal; unfulfilled dreams and ultimately dying without making my life all I dreamed of; and, most of all, resenting my family for the sacrifices I’d made for them, their seeming ingratitude or even acknowledgement of those sacrifices cutting a gaping hole in my heart.

And now, in my 40’s, it felt like I was merely watching life happen around me. I felt like I was living in a movie: I wanted what I saw, but couldn’t have it. It either wasn’t real, or wasn’t real for me.

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“Lydia? Did you hear what I said?”

I didn’t look at her; I was strangely mesmerized by the knots in the wood of her desk. I stared until my vision blurred and the knots started to swirl.

“I know this news is a shock. Are you ok? Can I get you something? A water maybe?”

I finally raised my head to look at her. “I heard you. And no thank you—I don’t need anything.”

She tried a small smile, her brown eyes warm with compassion. “This is treatable. We caught it early.”

I wasn’t reassured, because the news she’d just delivered was too heavy. I heard myself say, “Life has a funny way of reminding you how much you don’t know and how much control you don’t have.”

She nodded. “It does.”

Unable to sit for even one second more, I stood abruptly and spun around to the door. “I have to get out of here,” I managed to blurt, before launching myself through the doorway.

I don’t know how I made it to my truck, but I was driven by the absolute need to get to the barn; the comfort my gelding, Syd, would offer was calling me like a siren’s song. I paused long enough to first dial Tom’s number, and was relieved when it went to voicemail. He hadn’t known about this appointment, and once I’d told him my news, he wouldn’t understand the urgency behind my words; he’d have no understanding of how this wasn’t about us anymore, that the things I’d been able to ignore before I no longer could. He would need the comfort I so desperately needed, and I knew I’d be the one he’d need to lean on.

My thoughts drifted back to earlier that morning. It was just a stupid fight. One of a thousand just like it we’d had over the years. But this time, I’d found myself simultaneously thinking, “We’ve been here before,” like it was no big deal, and “I can’t do this anymore,” like it was. When Tom was arguing his point, his words flew at me like daggers—each one cutting a little deeper than the last.

I loved my husband, but I’ve learned that love isn’t easy. Sometimes it’s complicated and so sharp it seems you could cut yourself on it’s edges. My marriage isn’t the only place I see this, either. Friendships, business dealings, my children’s friends; they all seem to hinge on how other people’s insecurities make them react to the world around them and the people in it. Humans seek love as though it is the thing that makes life living—and maybe it is. But for as badly as we say we want it, we sure are good at messing it up. Humans are masters at making love painful and messy.

“Hey, it’s me,” I announced to his voicemail, struggling to keep my voice normal. “I’m on my way to the barn. I’ll see you later tonight.” As I hit “end”, I was struck with the feeling I wasn’t being fair, that it should have been him I was running to. But I shook it away and put the truck in drive.

The timing of this diagnosis couldn’t have been better orchestrated if I’d tried. There was me, already struggling to rediscover myself after years of trimming myself to fit this life Tom had envisioned for us. And now, facing a life changing—and potentially ending—diagnosis…it was a brutal slap in the face, a wake up call that life was rushing by, me allowing myself to show up in a way that wasn’t true to who I was. The excuses and allowances I’d always made for why things were the way they were and how I was ok with them because… the “because” wasn’t enough anymore. Suddenly I could clearly see the ways I’d let myself down, the wishes and dreams I’d let go unfulfilled, believing there would always be time “later”. The weight of this understanding made me almost physically sick, and I pressed down even harder on the accelerator.

I don’t remember the drive to the farm, and once there, I moved on autopilot towards the barn. I walked past a small group of ladies, fellow boarders, barely remembering to say ‘Hi'. Normally I would stop and chat, and for a split second I worried they would think less of me that day, and that thought pissed me off even more—my chronic need to be liked; the need to be seen a certain way tainting every interaction in my life. But this time, my need to get the hell away from everything was greater than my need to be liked or the guilt I felt for being seen as less than friendly, so I pushed both to the back of my mind and grabbed Syd’s halter from my locker.

I paused when I stepped out of the barn, my lifetime with horses reminding me that in this mood I would have a hell of a time catching my horse. I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath, held it for several seconds, then slowly let it out. I did it again, then again, then opened my eyes. I felt… calmer, maybe. A little less undone. I nodded once to myself, then headed towards the paddock.

Often the herd was down at the bottom of the field, requiring a lengthy walk to catch a horse, but to my great surprise, Syd was there, right at the gate—as though he’d known I’d needed him and was there waiting to offer me all that he could. My knees wobbled, and I almost allowed the relief to drop me to them. Instead, I forced one foot in front of the other, then stepped through the bars on the gate to catch my horse.

I slipped the halter over his nose and he turned into me, enveloping me in a hug with his neck wrapped around me. We stood like that for several seconds, his neck holding me close, and then we both drew in a deep, long breath, let it out, and turned for the barn.

I brushed him quickly, the frantic tumbling of my thoughts driving my hands with a frenzied energy. I needed to get on his back, and gallop away from all of the things I could no longer stand up under. But as I continued, the routine of grooming and tacking up eventually did what it always does; it forced my thoughts away from everything except what was right in front of me.

Once tacked up, I led Syd out of the barn, warmed by the anticipation of what this ride would do for me. As I swung my leg over his back, I left behind the woman who felt like she couldn’t put one foot in front of the other, safe on the back of the one who could. I was free, however briefly, from all that threatened to consume me. Soon we were galloping down a trail we both knew well, the wind making tears I wouldn’t otherwise allow. Syd’s long, powerful stride effortlessly created the distance I needed between me and everything else.

We ran until he decided on his own to drop down to a walk. I was merely a passenger, he the athlete who so graciously ran me away from the things I needed distance from. I felt myself smile in spite of everything, that run having lifted a weight nothing else could have. I didn’t talk, though. Words felt unnecessary, and I was scared they’d taint the serenity my horse had delivered to me.

Soon we crested a small hill—the place I would normally turn around—and stopped. I let my reins slide through my fingers, and Syd dropped his head to the lush green grass. I glanced to the west, the darkening skies rich with the promise of the intense storm I knew was coming, and that I’d welcomed. The approaching storm didn’t scare me; I craved the raw power, and felt a primal hunger for disaster I couldn’t explain and had no word for. I needed a powerful storm, as though one outside of me would help release the one inside, offering a cleansing and a start to healing I so desperately needed.

The day was perfectly still, and I was suddenly struck with a sense of foreboding: no birds were singing, and not a single leaf was moving. And then, a strange roaring sound I couldn’t identify. Syd and I both tipped our heads slightly, trying to determine where it was coming from. We were far from any roadway, and it didn’t sound like an ATV. I looked up at the sky, half expecting to see a plane flying low overhead, but all I saw were billowing black clouds rolling in. Instinct had me shorten my reins, but it felt like slow motion, each second lasting impossibly long. My spine tingled with a knowing that something was wrong, and I found myself leaning forward into his neck, as though becoming part of him would protect me. Syd’s ears flicked wildly back and forth, and he anxiously pranced in place, never disobedient, but offering even more proof that something was very wrong. Suddenly he froze, his ears locked into place, turned toward the noise coming up the hill behind us. Without warning, Syd bolted. We’d only gone a few strides when a wall of wind hit us, taking my breath away with its intensity.

In an instant, we were in the midst of the storm I’d incorrectly calculated to be at least an hour away—and that I’d thought I’d wanted to be caught in. As Syd ran back down the trail we’d come up, it was impossible for me to know what was in front of us, or how safe the footing was. The rain seemed to be coming at us sideways, and when I tried to lift my head off his powerful neck, branches whipped my face. I had no choice but to trust Syd completely; there was nothing else I could do but lean forward so that my head was buried alongside his neck. I had no idea if we were running from the storm or into it, but I figured Syd did, so I held on as tight as I possibly could.

The storm raged around us as he ran, with flashes of lightning so bright they fully illuminated the darkness the storm had ushered in. I was scared—I didn’t know how we could outrun such a powerful storm. But at the same time, I’d never felt more alive. Syd ran steadily, not panicked as one might expect, with his ears constantly flicking back and forth between me and the path in front of him.

As he galloped down the trail, me burrowed into his neck, I was struck by a thought that applied both to this storm, and the rest of my life: Sometimes you just have to tuck your head down low and push on, riding through the worst of it to get to the safety of the other side. And in that instant, I knew: the only thing that mattered was my survival. My survival. Not that of my marriage, or my day job, or any of the other things that contributed to me constantly being pulled away from who I really was. I was in a fight for my life, both now, on the back of my horse as we raced through the violent storm, and at home, where for years I’d allowed life and everyone in it to sweep all the parts of me that they felt didn’t fit somewhere far away. Fortified by this insight, I pressed my mouth into a firm, thin line and pressed my hands forward on Syd’s neck—not demanding, but allowing and encouraging him to get us home.

Syd didn’t slow his stride until we were back at the barn, where he came to a sliding stop in the mud. I slid to the ground, my legs weak with a mixture of adrenaline and relief. I fought against the vicious wind to get to the barn, then pulled with all my might to get the door open. Syd and I rushed inside, then I scrambled to pull the door shut behind us. The barn was dark, so I fumbled for the light switch on the wall. The aisle was suddenly flooded with light, the contrast to the darkness blinding me. I blinked until my eyes adjusted, then gasped when I saw the blood.

“Ah, Syd, what happened?” I bent down to examine his leg and discovered a deep gash across his forearm. “That might need stitches,” I murmured. I straightened, then led him to his stall where I stripped the wet tack off his back, then covered him with his wool cooler. I dashed to the tack room for my vet supplies, anticipating the call I’d have to make to the vet, wondering how I’d explain why we’d been out in such a bad storm, and how I had no idea what had cut my horse’s leg.

When I got back to Syd, I checked the cut more closely and was relieved to find it wasn’t as bad as I’d first thought. Being as gentle as I could, I cleaned it, then treated it with ointment and wrapped it. Syd rested his nose on my back as I leaned down beside him.

He nudged me with his nose and I laughed, then wiped my hands on my wet jeans. I could finally see myself clearly; those pieces of me I’d thought I lost weren’t gone forever. They were still there, and I knew it was time to awaken them from their slumber, to let them out to play again. I’d essentially been living a lie—one that I’d allowed and even nurtured in what I thought was doing the things needed to make my life work. No one else had contorted me into a specific vision—I’d done that on my own. That wasn’t love. I’d thought that silencing parts of myself as a way to keep the peace was the path to a happy marriage, but I could now see that both Tom and I needed to learn to love all the pieces of me—even the inconvenient ones. I knew I would have to make time to do things that fed my soul, instead of having me worrying about feeding everyone else’s.

I’d just finished wrapping his leg when I felt someone behind me, watching. I turned my head to look, and there was Tom, hair dripping wet with rainwater, his expression troubled. The relief at seeing him thrust me forward into his arms.

“You were out in that storm, weren’t you?” Surprised to hear no anger in his voice, I nodded into his chest. He squeezed me tighter, then murmured into the top of my head, “I drove you to it, didn’t I. It was our fight that made you need to get on and ride away.” He said them as statements, not questions, and I nodded again, then pulled away so I could look into his eyes.

“It was partly our fight. But…” I dropped my gaze to my boots, suddenly unable to say the words I needed to tell him. I swallowed hard, then forced myself to meet his eyes again. “I had a doctor’s appointment, too. I found a lump and…”

I didn’t try to stop the tears this time, so relieved at being able to tell him the terrifying news, with his arms wrapped around me. I was also crying because I’d stopped myself from doing this—from telling him, from needing him, from letting him comfort me—and I felt a fool.

Tom gently pulled away from me and kissed the top of my head. “You were never scared of anything, Lydia. You’ve never backed down from a challenge, and that’s one of the first things that made me fall in love with you. This is no different—yeah, it’s scary news. But you won’t back down.”

I allowed a small smile. “I was always scared, Tom. You and everyone else who knew me assumed I wasn’t because I was always trying new things. That made me look fearless and confident, but I wasn’t. Not really. The truth is, it wasn’t bravery that propelled me forward in life, it was fear. Fear that my life would pass me by without me really living. Right now, I’m more scared than I’ve ever been.”

I squeezed my arms around him, then let my arms drop and took hold of his hands instead. I kissed one, then the other. “I thought I was surrendering parts of myself to make our life work. I honestly believed that you didn’t love all of me—only the easy parts. And now I can see that just isn’t true. The next little while won’t have many easy parts, I don’t think. Yet here you are. You showed up when I needed you more than even I knew.”

Tom leaned down and kissed me, then wiped the tears from my cheeks. “I’ll always show up for you. Syd may have carried you through this storm, but he’s not the only one you can count on. I’m here too. I love you, too. Syd and I are both here to carry you through any other storms that come your way.”

I touched the side of his face with my hand, the words stuck on the lump in my throat. Then I turned away from Tom to gather my vet supplies and give Syd one last kiss. I wrapped my arms around his neck and whispered, “Thank you.” I stood there like that, unable to let go, because in that moment I was so overwhelmed with the emotions tumbling through my mind. I was humbled by this horse. Empowered, enlightened, and then sheepish--because my limited human experience of love is so limited. Most people think they know what love is, but in truth, that love is so often defined by restrictions and fear. A horse’s love is only that—just love. He doesn’t have to explain it, quantify it, understand it, or try to make it be anything other than what it is. Love is simple. It’s easy and it’s real. Horses already know this—we’re the ones who need to learn it, too.