The Only Way Through is Through

Yesterday, Luna and I went for a ride. This wasn’t just any ride. It was, I’m pretty sure, the best ride we have ever had together.

It wasn’t a crazy gallop down the beach—hair blowing in the wind, chasing a feeling of freedom. We’ve had many of those. The ride yesterday, spent mostly at a walk, was even better.

But it didn’t start out that way.

We headed toward the beach, as we often do, but along the way I decided to take a detour. I wanted to head up a hillside path, wind down a dirt road, and loop back to the main beach trail. Simple. Or so I thought.

Luna raced up the hill with excitement. But the moment we turned onto the dirt road, she stopped dead in her tracks.

It was then I remembered: Luna does not like driveways. Specifically, laja—flagstone—driveways. I learned this years ago when I tried to bring her to my house and tie her up. It was like a kid playing the game of hot lava; she wouldn’t let her hooves get anywhere near those stones.

We were so focused on getting across the driveway that I didn’t think to get a picture. But this is from later on our ride.

Normally, this wouldn’t have been an issue on a trail ride. But a homeowner along this dirt road, perhaps in an attempt to beautify the place, had extended their flagstone driveway all the way to the edge of the road. To make matters worse, there was a sheer cliff drop-off not far from the driveway’s edge, with thick, overgrown brush filling the narrow space between.

So, there we were. Perched on the edge of the stone like a cartoon horse, front feet frozen, staring over an imaginary abyss.

Granted, we could have turned around and gone back the way we came. But I knew that retreating would only reinforce the fear, locking in the scary stone-driveway behavior.

So, we just stood there. Luna, wide awake, nerves heightened. Me, channeling every ounce of supportive, we-can-do-this energy I possessed.

We have been together for close to thirteen years now, riding for twelve of them—minus a few years for maternity leave (Luna’s, not mine). When we first found each other, neither of us was at the top of our game.

Luna was emaciated, neglected, and basically abandoned; at the start, it wasn’t even clear if she would survive once she finally had water and alfalfa. And me? To say I was a “green” rider would be an understatement. I was completely inexperienced and utterly terrified. It was not an ideal combination: a spooky, traumatized horse paired with an anxious, inexperienced rider.

For those first years, we stumbled our way through. But it wasn’t until the past few seasons, as I began to study the deeper elements of horsemanship, that things truly shifted.

Actually, the shift happened in me first.

I realized I had been using way too much pressure. Instead of working as a team, we were constantly fighting each other—me pulling at the reins, her chomping at the bit. It was during Luna’s maternity leaves—first with Zarco, then with Deseo—that the wider world of true horsemanship opened up to me. By the time I finally got back into her saddle, I had changed.

I tried to show that to her. I tried to communicate it every time we rode.

“I am not the same person I was, Luna,” I would tell her. “You can trust me now. You don’t have to carry all the weight yourself. I know what I’m doing now.”

But a decade of conditioning doesn’t vanish overnight just because you want it to.

Standing on the edge of that flagstone, I gently urged her forward. She didn’t budge. I waited, relaxed my seat, and urged her again. This time, a tiny shift in her weight.

“That’s great!” I exclaimed out loud. If anyone had been watching from the hillside, they would have heard a continuous, enthusiastic play-by-play. “You can do this. We’ve got this.”

In that moment, I realized something vital: I wasn’t afraid. I was the entirely confident one, allowing Luna to take refuge in my strength. I wasn’t pushing her. I wasn’t forcing her. I wasn’t rushing her. I was just gently, firmly holding the space, letting her know that she was capable, and that we were safe.

After a few minutes of this steady presence, she committed. All four feet were on the stone driveway. But then, the hesitation crept back in. She froze again.

“We are already here! You’ve already done it! You are so brave, I am so proud of you!”

The hesitation remained, but my internal baseline didn’t waver. It’s okay, I thought, we are not in a hurry. We can take all the time you need. I truly meant it. If we never made it to the beach today, that was completely fine. This right here was the most important place we could possibly be.

After a few more minutes of quiet stillness, something clicked. As if it were no big deal, as if she did it every single day, Luna casually walked across the rest of the flagstone and dropped into a nonchalant stride.

“You did it!!”

I was so proud of her. So proud of us.

It was a small thing—we could have gone back the way we came. There was nothing essential about crossing that driveway. But by facing it, we proved to ourselves that we had it in us to meet the challenge, to confront the scary thing.

It was in that moment that I knew we had discovered something deeper, in each of us, and in our connection.