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JOY HAS A HABIT OF RETURNING. BTW

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i love my feminine energy so much, i want someone who will love it too, someone who will ask me things, who is curious about me, who will open doors for me, who will give me gifts, who will pay for my coffee or my nails, all to see me react and tell them how much i appreciate them and to hug them and kiss them all over the face and to have me not as a prize but as an experience to be able to know my soul, to see how my face lights up everytime i know theyve been paying attention to what im saying and to see how i react to their masculine energy- UGHHHHHH im just so looking forward to meeting my future partner i just know they will be so perfect

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when horse movies are like “look at this wild mustang, just caught fresh out of the mountains of wyoming” and show you this

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Late Night with the Devil (2023) dir. Cameron Cairnes, Colin Cairnes

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the author's barely disguised open wound splattered livid and filthy across everything they create

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just FYI the entire reason I’m here is to meet gay horse people lol

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western pleasure horses at the canter always look like they’re limping off the battlefield, everything is smoke and craters and they’re injured and half dead from exhaustion but there’s nowhere to stop so they just keep jogging

some people apparently find this gait desirable.

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Do you have any regrets?

Absolutely! Thanks for the ask

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I often find myself wondering whether versions of me at various ages would consider current me “cool”. My steadfast love of horses has transcended time and space. The phase never faded. You either have it or you don’t. And I do. Here I am despite it all, in the same spot where I stood decades ago.

The horse world was my first reminder from the universe that most of the time, love is not enough. No matter how much time I spent playing with my Breyers, flipping through horse magazines, or watching thoroughbred races well past my bedtime on a 12 inch TV, it didn’t change the fact that moving up in the sport simply wasn’t financially feasible for my family.

I burned with envy for the girls who were gifted a horse of their own; whose dads shelled out money without a hint of hesitation for entry fees, private lessons, fancy tack, and designer breeches. It was the first time I was “the other”, a feeling that would rear its ugly head time after time, well into adulthood.

When I decided to revisit the hunter/jumper word again after 10+ years, I was determined to carve out my own space rather than cramming myself into one where I didn’t fit. In some ways I felt like that lonely kid again, desperate for the “other girls” to embrace me. But this time it didn’t matter! Now that my life is flush with love and acceptance from elsewhere, I can focus on the intricacies and nuance of the sport. I can focus on cultivating a bond with my equine partner. I can be fully present.

After leaving horses behind the first time, I amassed a collection of spiritual dings and bruises from forces beyond my control. An unbelievably painful breakup had left me feeling unsafe in my own body. I felt trapped in the cruel confines of my physical form. Powerless, useless, ugly, undeserving.

Riding has reminded me that my body is defined by more than the gaze of others. There is an invisible string that runs from the crown of my head down to the base of my spine. There are ever-growing muscles just beneath my skin propelling us forward. How lucky am I to have eyes that see distances between jumps (sometimes)? How lucky am I to have fingers nimble enough to give silent instructions to the 1200 pound animal beneath me? Maybe I’m prettier and richer than I ever could imagine.

Being in the saddle is the only time I communicate outside the confines of spoken language, transcending boundaries between species to perform feats that push the limits of physics. My intent is expressed through subtle movement rather than words, forcing me to be deliberate, uninhibited, honest.

As I drive to the barn twice a week, anxiety radiates from the pit of my chest into every corner of my body. I imagine gnarly falls, steep medical bills, life altering injury, permanent paralysis, or even death. Twenty minutes later, I am atop an animal who could break me beyond repair. I trust blindly. I do it scared.

The “horses heal” bullshit is so funny to me, because nothing I’ve loved has ever hurt more. I have been physically and metaphorically humbled by these weird, wonderful animals time and time again. I know nothing, isn’t that beautiful?

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god I wish I was a sheep being gently but firmly held down and sheared by a butch lesbian

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Little dragon toted me around a five fence course with changes (!) the Grand Prix hates to see us comin 😈

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HAPPY NEW YEAR, CHARLIE BROWN! (1986), dir. Bill Melendez & Sam Jaimes

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about 🎀

Writer/editor from NYC. Horse girl. Emo kid. I have a coonhound and a Fiona Apple tattoo.

femme4butch only pls 💋

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