The Dumbest Hobby, Really

I wasn’t sure if I was breathlessly sobbing because of the ongoing pain of my broken collarbone and ribs, I was giving up my horse, or both. Ruby, my adorable but stubborn grey Arabian “dream horse” was going back to her breeder, and three years of hard work, time and money were going back with her. Horses are a stupid hobby, really.

Although I was a fairly competent rider in my 20s, I had little to no business buying her in the first place. She was my 47-year-old equivalent of the middle-aged divorced dad buying a red corvette and then promptly wrecking it. My foolhardy purchase coincided with my baffling transformation from svelte Pilates enthusiast with a flat core and almost boyish hips to portly Pilates enthusiast with an out-of-control soft body that toddled along next to crying and menstrual bleeding jags that left me feeling like a maudlin squishy dumpling.

My new self collided with a headstrong young Arabian mare, and I had unwittingly *voluntarily* skipped all the stages of child-rearing and brought a moody teen girl into my child-free existence, albeit an 800-pound adolescent whose allegorical door slams and “I HATE YOU-AH!” tantrums put me into the hospital twice. The hobby that was supposed to bring me pleasure was instead trying to kill me. While recuperating from the first broken bone (my ankle, this time), I tried to pick up a more civilized pursuit: crocheting. After fumbling with the knots and needles, it was quickly shelved and never touched again. My hands were made to pet animals and hold reins- beyond that, manual dexterity eluded me.

I wasn’t ready to give up riding, and my friends at the barn weren’t going to let me quit either. So when I found a good prospect in The Plains, Virginia, my barn owner, who was also my friend and surrogate rider, drove me out to meet him. “Cody” as he was called then stuck his head out of his stall window as soon as we pulled up, and for the first time in months, I barked an astonished laugh. He was not only beautiful- a pure Dun of caramel and black- but his eyes were kind and inquisitive. I also saw a mischievous glint in his expression too, like he was a little bit silly. I felt a snap in my body, like I had a rubberband suspended in my guts and then an overwhelming sense of joy. I said silently “That’s him.”

My barn owner put him through his gaits, and he moved beautifully. When she tested his reactivity level out on a trail, she said he listened to her and did the equine equivalent of a shrug when the other rider trotted off and left them. He also held his ears forward, staring at me curiously when I pretended to be a zig-zagging child screaming “horsey horsey horsey!” After all these tests, I held his reins. He sighed and lowered his head against me, seeming to say “we’re home.”

I’ve now owned Rolo, named for his caramel coloring, for four years. The hobby that nearly broke my sanity along with my body has instead become empowering and calming all at once. Whether we are competing in dressage shows, judged obstacles, or meandering along a sun-dappled green trail next to the river, Rolo and I are a team. I don’t feel like a clumsy old woman on his back. I feel strong, like a warrior or pioneer on a great adventure. My hobby has now also turned into a business. With Rolo’s help as my practice subject, I became certified in Equine Sports Massage. But the most meaningful part of having him in my life was this past year. When Covid came and changed the world, I could still go out to the barn to see Rolo. He became my beacon of normalcy and peace; I would hug his giant neck and just breathe. So horses may be the stupidest hobby as they go- “what can potentially murder you AND take all your money?”, but nothing has ever made me feel so bold, so vulnerable, so exhilarated, so humbled, so nourished and so *myself* simultaneously.