On Saddles, Mumus, and 55

My grandma moved to Baja to retire in the early 1960s. She was in her mid-fifties. If you look at the old family photos of her sitting on the patio with her friends, they were “old”—sure, they were in great shape and had a lot of fun —but they for sure looked like ‘old people’ in those classic, spacious “old lady” mumus.

Yesterday, I turned 55.

How could that be?

Granted, 25 feels like eons ago. But 35? 45? They feel like just yesterday. I know I’ve heard others say that over the years, but somehow, the truth of it doesn’t entirely sink in until it happens to you.

55. An AARP card. A discount at the movies—if I ever actually go to the movies again.

To help celebrate, I decided to head out for an evening ride on Fortuna.

Fortuna and I have a relationship that goes back to the very day she was born five years ago. I share a unique bond with each of my horses, but the connection with Fortuna is special. Despite knowing her for her entire life, I have only been riding her for the past year. We’ve spent these months getting to know each other in an entirely new way, slowly building a bridge of mutual trust.

But there was just one thing: we had never galloped together.

This might come as a surprise to anyone used to seeing my videos of galloping down the beach at sunset. But those moments are all shared with Alegria and Luna, whom I have been riding for a decade. Those gallops have been developing for years. It can be easy to watch a video—one hand on the reins, one hand on the phone recording—and assume that it all comes easily, without struggle. But that is only a single bit of the truth.

Which brings us back to Fortuna.

Around the same time I began riding her, I also invested in a new saddle. I’ve written before about my search for the perfect fit; my traditional vaquera saddle is beautiful and I love it, but it is massive and simply too heavy for me to comfortably lift onto Fortuna’s tall back.

The new tejana saddle is wonderful, too—but it is entirely different. The main difference is that it doesn’t have a “seatbelt.”

That is the word I use to describe the wide shoulders on my traditional vaquera saddle. It is incredibly secure.

Those shoulders allow you to press your body firmly against the saddle and feel completely held in. The stirrups are also closed, heavy, and stiff. Having used that saddle for years, I didn’t realize how much I had molded my posture and my riding style to its specific shape.

Specifically, I had developed the habit of pushing myself into those heavy saddle shoulders when galloping, using them to support my body.

All of a sudden, with the new, shoulder-less saddle, there was nothing to push against.

The first time I asked for a faster gait, I leaned into that familiar support and found only empty air. It was disconcerting, to say the least. For months, I couldn’t quite figure out how to get our rhythms to match, or how to align my body with hers without that external security. So, we didn’t gallop.

Until yesterday.

I didn’t have a grand plan for my birthday ride, other than wanting to take Fortuna out solo. Lately, we’d been sticking to the familiar estuary trails, but yesterday the ocean called. That was the extent of the plan—or so I thought.

Once we reached the sand, it became clear that Fortuna had her own plan.

She wasn’t fidgety or anxious; she was calm, cool, and collected. But she communicated to me, in the subtle language I am finally learning to hear, that today was the day.

Today, we would gallop.

It wasn’t a loud conversation; it was a quiet knowing. It wasn’t a sudden decision, but a natural unfolding.

Neither of us forced the other. We simply eased our way into the wind, sliding into a gentle gallop.

My body—deeply conditioned to the rhythm of Alegria and the heavy safety of the vaquera saddle—immediately began to protest: Wait, what is going on here? This is not the saddle we know! This is not the mare we are used to!

But as we moved down the coastline, each stride got a little smoother, a little less awkward, a bit more connected.

In that space, I realized something beautiful: Fortuna was not only asking me to trust her, she was allowing me to trust myself.

You can do this, she was telling me through her rhythm. You know how to do this. You’ve been relying on the saddle to hold you up, but your body actually knows exactly what to do.

And we did. Like the Little Engine that Could—”I think I can, I think I can. And she did.”—we found the stride.

I still don’t know if the vision belonged to me, to Fortuna, or to some wild space between us.

But shedding the mumus of the past and letting go of the seatbelt felt like the only real way to welcome 55.

Turning a new page always comes with a choice: do we lean into the comfortable structures we’ve already built, or do we allow ourselves to let go of the safety rails and see what we actually know how to do?