Julie Tullos

When I was young I wanted to be a jockey. I wanted to ride fast and hard and be part of that boy’s club. Julie Krone was my idol. When I was 12 we looked up “jockey camp” which was in California. Unfortunately the camp was too expensive for my parents to manage so the idea quickly turned to dust. When I was 14 I decided I wanted a pony farm. I wanted to breed Welsh ponies and have high-quality, gorgeous ponies – I can still see the acres of paddocks with white fencing in my mind. By the time I was 16 I was more practical. I was going to be an accountant. I loved math and numbers and took accountancy as a high school elective. The teacher was excellent and she had a full class of would-be accountants at the end of the school year.

Fresh into college I was absolutely sure that accountancy was my path. In my sophomore year I took basic accountant classes and sailed through. First semester of my junior year saw the “theory” of accounting melt my brain and give me panic attacks. I didn’t get it. None of it made sense. I started struggling with my grades, and with my destiny. Being ever-practical, late into that semester I changed track and dived into business management with gusto. Ahhh, this was easy. It all came naturally to me and I could easily bullshit my way through essays at the last minute. I began to get all A’s again.

I graduated in December of 1997 with a degree in Management, a Bachelor of Business Administration. Securing a job was easy. I had been working in a Continuing Medical Education (CME) office at a hospital in Bryan. Continuing on that career trajectory, I was employed by the University of Texas-Houston Health Science Center as an Event Planner in the CME office. For three years I worked in Houston. Hating it, I soon decided to move to Dallas, to be closer to my parents. Again, with career goals in mind, I took a job as an Event Planner with Physician’s Education Resource. For a year I flew back and forth to Hawaii, to Canada, to New York, to Santa Fe and more.

The good Doctor who owned that company was a real tool. 9/11 happened. On a Tuesday morning. I was meant to fly to Orlando on Friday. Not ONE HOUR after the twin towers fell he called all 30ish of his employees to the conference room. After some spiel of fake concern (he was not from America, I will tell you), he looked around the room and said “life must go on.” Maybe true, but not in that moment! He locked eyes with me and said “you’ll still go to Orlando on Friday.” It wasn’t a question. I responded with “I doubt the planes will be flying, and I am not going anywhere.” I had already put in my resignation and Orlando was going to be my last hurrah. I left that day and didn’t look back.

(The planes were not flying by Friday, and nobody went to Orlando).

I had said an immediate YES to a the owner of the barn where my horse was stabled when she asked if I wanted to teach lessons and manage the barn. My mother was concerned. I told her I had been handed a dream on a silver platter and I wasn’t going to turn it down.

And that’s where my life changed forever. I left the glittery world of traveling and catering to physicians behind (and the income) and fell headlong back into the world of horses.

It wasn’t easy. I lost thirty pounds in a matter of months from spending 10+ hours at the barn each day. Cleaning thirty stalls did me in. Then they’d immediately not be clean again. It did not sit well with my OCD heart. I’d try to make sure they were all perfect as often as I could but there were too many other things to capture my attention. Taking care of the horses, teaching lessons, holding for the vet or farrier, cleaning tack, managing parents and owners, amiss a variety of other chores. The barn was owned by three ladies, one of which was meant to be my friend. But I remember one day I was sitting on a bench, taking a break and eating an apple. She came by me and I remember almost panicking because I was not working. She was a hard-ass and wanted everything to be in her control at all times. She was not fun to work for. I swear she did not know how to have real friends. I tried hard, but by the time she sold out and moved away, I was relieved.

The money wasn’t great. I started out with more than I left with. The other two ladies who owned the barn kept changing the details of our agreement until I left because I was not making enough money to stay. I had completely changed the atmosphere and energy of that barn in the six years I was there. It was a thriving hunter jumper barn with mostly good lesson horses and a huge student base. Even as the Head Instructor, managing the lesson program, going to horseshows and teaching nonstop, I was not being compensated fairly in my opinion. In one sense they were a GREAT six years. I had awesome kids and parents and a super fun “show team.” I have extremely fond memories of those horseshows and banquets. Those parents and kids will always be in my heart.

In 2007 I was offered the opportunity to come to Aubrey. To start my own business. I had long decided this was my new dream. I did not want to breed ponies, but I wanted to OWN them. And so Abingdon Park & Pony Farm was born.

To be continued…

I bit the bullet. Two weeks ago I found myself sitting across from a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner. Does anyone see an actual MD these days? At any rate, there I was in front of an NP from Nigeria. Not at all what I was expecting – no long bearded white fellow with a pipe and wearing well worn loafers. Stereotypical but nonetheless I was surprised.

When I walked in I was greeted by two lovely ladies and asked to take a seat. When I went up to the counter to pay and they told me the visit would be $300 I almost walked out. My face must have shown my distress because one of the ladies said “I can see by your face that you’re a little stressed by that but trust me it will be well worth your money, and future visits don’t cost that much.” I gave her a weak smile and handed over my card.

When I was shown back, they immediately took my weight. Why? What is there to gain from a Psychiatrist knowing my weight, except that I might be a *bit* depressed over it? Then once the shock had worn off that the doctor’s scale was not quite the same as mine at home, she proceeded to take my blood pressure. 150/106. That’s a little high, she says. Have you had any caffeine today? I stared at her, my mind whirring. What to say, what to say?! I settle on the truth and say “well yes. I drink Diet Coke all day long.” She stares back, incredulous. All day? she says, astounded. Yes. All day. I’m certain you are judging me right now but I don’t care. The caffeine consumption is the least of my worries. Well, she says slowly, that could be why your BP is elevated. Lady, that is not why. Maybe it’s because I just handed over $300 big ones and had my actual weight thrown in my face. That’d make anyone’s BP skyrocket. https://www.sstack.com/dura-tech-polar-fleece-dress-sheet/p/31047/?sku=31047%2081%20NV&glCountry=us&gad_source=1&gclid=CjwKCAjwps-zBhAiEiwALwsVYRdSwfizaWdgM2CdfvHRk-adkaeQN6CMB9MZXf9rEkLdMOi1G31bOhoCqf8QAvD_BwE&variant=true

I am shown to the consulting room. There, instead of a woman named, interestingly, “Princess” is a man whose name I cannot pronounce. This isn’t going to be good, I think to myself. I thought I was getting a woman. What if I can’t understand this dude? Blood pressure mounting steadily, I sit down across from him.

He’s typing into a computer. No notebook, clipboard and pen these days. He smiles at me and asks me what I am feeling right now, why have I come to see him? I blurt out “I thought I was going to be seeing a woman. I’m a little on the wrong foot here.” He smiles apologetically and says that they were somewhat overbooked.

I can feel the tears welling. It has not been a good day, depression wise, and now I feel that after having summoned the courage to come to a Psychiatrist I have made a mistake. I don’t think I will be able to open up to him. His name is Alvin (Simon, Theodore!) and he is, I soon find out, extremely nice and easygoing. As we begin I start to feel a little more relaxed and the tears thankfully disappear back into my brain, or my ears, or wherever it is that tears go when they don’t fall down your face.

He mentions my blood pressure. I tell him I have every confidence that it is stress related due to the $300 and the numbers on the scale. He laughs and says we’ll lets take it again at the end of the session and see what it is then. He is a kind man. We talk about him being from Nigeria as I find things to fiddle with on his desk, straightening his business cards over and over again.

We come to the actual reason I am there. Depression and grief. Suicidal thoughts or intentions he asks? Never I say. I would never do that to my Baby Girl. He asks how long I have been depressed. Um, since college? We go through all the details of what my life has been like over the past five/six years. We go through the mental history of my mom’s side. When you list it all out like that it doesn’t look good. In fact, I’m shocked I’m as mentally healthy as I am. I am destined to have Alzheimer’s or something equally depressing when you take a hard look at that side of the family. And your Dad’s side? he asks. Oh, I say, nothing. No, nothing there. They’re all good. Very mentally stable. I was hoping, in fact, that I had enough of my Dad’s side blood to keep me from dementia as a foregone conclusion.

Eventually he says, well you know what the diagnosis is. And I say, yes of course. Grief and chronic depression. And anxiety he adds. Right. Now that we’ve established that for the records, what can you do for me? I have to admit that I did not know that I wouldn’t be sitting there having a grief related bawl session with him once a week (though my finances are grateful.) He explains that I need to see a grief counselor separately to him. He is the drugs guy. Well thank heavens for that I say. I explain that he needs to give me ONE name. If he gives me a list I will not follow through. I tell him that is the reason it took me over a year to actually come to him. My regular NP gave me a list of psychiatrists to look into. They were all in Denton. I finally chose THIS practice based solely on location (Aubrey) and a few excellent reviews. That list was stared at and then tossed.

He gives me the list anyway. I glance at it briefly. He explains it shows location and price per session. I say where are the freebies? He says there is something called “Grief Share” which is held at local churches for free that I could try. It’s been two weeks and I haven’t looked at that list.

Then we talk about meds. Have you been on this one and that one, or this one or that one? I’ve tried a bunch of them over the years. I tell him I take Cymbalta currently and he explains that it only has a half-life of 10-12 hours, so since I take it at night it is certainly helping me until the morning. I think he is being somewhat sarcastic but I’m not entirely sure. I am more than a little surprised to hear that the med I’ve been taking for years hasn’t really been helping me because I was taking it at the wrong time of day. He says we need to get you fully covered. I am all for that. Let’s do it! Bring it on, Doc, I am extremely ready to feel better.

At the end of the session I have been prescribed Wellbutrin on top of the Cymbalta. I am willing to give it a shot.

Friends, it has been two weeks. I DO feel better. I am not raring to go with energy (never have been) but I feel more like myself. I have more focus. Slightly less tired. Can make it through the day better. Am happier and less irritated. Fingers crossed things continue to improve with time.

For the sake of my privacy, I have obviously not disclosed everything in this blog. But I know that some of you have been on this journey with me, and might be interested in the progression. Some of you may want to know that I finally have gotten some support. Some of you may want to know what a first time Psychiatry appointment is like, in case you are pondering whether to go yourself.

As for my grief… well it comes and goes. Note to self – Dilliards, especially the Liz Claiborne and the make up sections, will still smell and look like they did when you went there with your mom so many times. Barnes and Noble will have her ghost in the pages of the books it sells. And Auntie Anne’s pretzels will taste like she’s eating cinnamon pretzels right next to you. Dad is in the American flag out front, in the garage with Tony and on the tractor, in the sun and wind and back porch sitting with a little bit of whiskey and a smoke.

I’m not so sure I need that grief counseling.

There are no two ways to describe it. My girl is feral.

She is lucky. To grow up out here on our “ranch” with the ponies outside her window, her own riding arena, a golf cart, fruit trees, country roads and long blonde hair.

All summer long she runs barefoot. In the winter her Daddy has to threaten her with punishments in order to get something on her feet. Her favorite shoes (when forced to wear them) are her paddock boots. She is growing like a weed, too. All her shorts are too short, and lucky for her crop tops have become a thing. There’s no such things as socks in the summer. The bottoms of her feet are black with dirt, but she has acquiesced to taking a bath or shower every evening so at least I know that grime isn’t ending up at the bottom of her bedsheets.

That hair. She swims. She rides. She runs wild. She drives the golf cart in the wind. She does NOT brush it. If I didn’t insist on running a brush through it every few days I swear it would be dreadlocked by now. About once a week I can convince her to wash and condition it and let me brush it out while it’s still wet. I have to buy the deep conditioner packets from Walmart to have any hope of maintaining some moisture in it. She still loves her bangs but does nothing to them. Maybe once a month she’ll let me “do” her hair. I usually let her sister straighten it and it looks quite nice until the next bath. She doesn’t scream as much when her sister does it. She gets a hair cut maybe twice a year. Otherwise her motto is “crazy hair don’t care.”

She is mostly unconcerned with protocol or rules. Her favorite thing to say (besides begging me for something) is “it won’t hurt!” As in, I want to do this thing and you should let me because I know better than you. (Insert eye roll here). She just turned 10 but let me tell you, nine was ROUGH. Hormones? Emotions as big as oceans, mood changes, anger, frustration, pushing pushing pushing the boundaries. So far 10 is seeing a change for the better … most of the time.

If she’s not running wild outside her best friend is that freaking iPad. I wish those things had never been invented. She is glued to it. Playing all the games and watching all the YouTube, it turns her brain to mush and makes her cranky. She’ll deny it all day long but I make sure to point out when she’s had enough. There are times I’d like to throw it (or her) out the window far enough to land in the pond out back.

You can’t convince her to sleep. But when she does (finally) fall asleep, she sleeps hard for about 8 hours. Or less. She wakes up with the sun every day. If her Mama wants to take a nap she won’t let her sleep for long before she’s in her room wanting something. I don’t know about y’all but I was terrified to wake my Mom up if she was sleeping. Even after a nightmare or bad dream, I would sneak into her room and stare at her, trying to conjure up the guts to wake her up. I usually would give up and go back to my room. I just wasn’t that brave. I’m even afraid to wake my husband up! Cranky Bear that he is, plus he might shoot me on accident. Just kidding y’all, but don’t think the thought hasn’t occurred to me!

She either eats (junk) all day long or doesn’t eat at all. She’s not a fan of breakfast. Until her crying jags start and I’m not impressed. Girl, you need to eat, I say. She will usually retort with I’m not hungry! I bought her some Flintstone vitamins (which she hates) and I buy basketfuls of fruit every three days. Apples, grapes, strawberries, cantaloupe, blueberries, she loves them all. Except blackberries which she won’t touch. I give her yogurt so she’ll have some protein. It’s the best I can do. There are stickers from apples ALL OVER my house. There’s one on the kitchen rug that I can’t get off. Most people worry about plates, cups and cutlery in their kids’ rooms. I worry about fruit flies and apple cores.

Would I have it any other way? Probably not. She’s growing up wild, but also fierce and independent. She’s self sufficient when she wants to be. She has initiative. She has guts – if I’m not around she’ll figure things out on her own. She knows the benefits of fresh air and sunshine, and playing in the rain and mud and dirt. She’s capable and headstrong and growing up faster than I’d like. I fully admit I miss the pacifier days. I also fully admit I’d like the “pretending to be a dog” days to be over and done with. “Mommy, what’s my name? Do you like Raven? I’m a cross between a Doberman and a Rottweiler! What’s that called? Google it.” You’re killing me, kid. Can’t you just be a little girl?

There are days when she gives in a little easier, acts a little more mature, and then there are days she can’t handle herself. I suppose it’s all part of growing up. And I get to be here for it.

I can’t wait to see who she’ll become.

When I was a little girl, maybe 9 or 10 years old, my Granny was visiting from Austin. At some point during her visit I used the last of the toilet paper roll and failed to put a fresh one on the holder. She reprimanded me for it, and being stubborn and full of hurt I ran off to pout. Later, we sat next to each other on the stairs and she gently told me that my Mom needed lots of help (my Dad was not often home) and that I really needed to act responsibly in order to help her out. Tearfully I nodded and cuddled into her. I had never been reprimanded by my Granny before, and that hurt more than anything else. But I never forgot the message. I do not know if I helped my Mom out more around the house but I have never again failed to sort out a new toilet paper roll on an empty holder.

These days I gaze at my nine-almost-ten year old daughter and I think about that message. I think about strawberries. I think about ipads and tablets and computers we never had in the eighties, and this entitled world we live in.

I never eat the strawberries. I buy them for her. I cut them up into pieces and serve them with yogurt (not sugar dumped on top like my own Mom used to do!). Sometimes she takes them out of the fridge and eats them without even washing them (egads!) She fails to put the dish in the sink. She doesn’t throw the carton away. She needs a lot of reminding to do these things. Sometimes I want to scream and throw my hands up in despair. Sometimes I want to cry because she no longer has her Granny that she adored to reprimand her and teach her life lessons. Sometimes I pick the dish up or throw away the carton for her, simply because it’s easier and I’m tired of yelling. I’m doing her a disservice when I do this, I know. But a Mom can only do so much.

These are the things I want her to remember:

Girl, take the trash out. If it’s full, remove it and put a fresh bag in. Kitchen, bathroom, your bedroom, whatever. You can do this.

For the love of Pete dry off before you exit the tub or shower. A wet floor is disgusting and this is not a hotel.

Please please please take your underwear out of your pants. Will you still be doing this when you’re 22? Please God, help her see the light.

Hang up your wet towel (we are making progress on this one!). I paid a lot of money for these carpets and someday you’ll stand on your own brand new carpet and silently (or not so silently) scream at your own children (and perhaps your husband) to HANG UP YOUR TOWEL. It physically hurts to see it on the floor.

Don’t leave trash in your room. Especially on your bed. Take pride in your surroundings. Someday you’ll be old enough to drive and if your car stinks like take out and looks like a dump no one will want to go anywhere with you. If your first apartment mimics your filthy car I promise you I will not come over to clean it. Or buy you nice things. In fact I will probably stuff the TV remote down the couch cushions and leave crumbs in the guest bed, my towel on the floor and an empty popsicle box in the freezer.

When you are older… please learn to make a bed. When you stay at someone’s house they will expect you to leave the room you stayed in tidy. Again, it’s not a hotel.

Because of this technological age we live in, she is both less mature and more worldly than I was at this age. I was naive and sheltered, protected by my nuclear family in an Army-based world. She can work a computer and a phone better than I can. She can connect online with her friends to play games. She can create a masterpiece in Minecraft. She has lived in the same place all her life and never had to start over in a new town, with new people. She has an older sister and a nephew. I had a brother who tortured me and made me tough. She’s had ponies that have made her tougher.

I would have thought I’d died and gone to heaven if I got to help out at a real life stable every day. She’d rather play Star Stable on the computer than muck stalls. This isn’t to say that she doesn’t run around feral much of the time, outside with no shoes on and climbing fences and digging in the dirt. I had those experiences, too. She is lucky that way. She can drive a golf cart and feed the horses. She can scrub a water trough. In a way she has more responsibilities than I ever did.

I’m not sure she’s ready to read this post. But I’m going to give it to her anyway. Maybe the words will sink in. Maybe she’ll see that I die for her every time she says she misses Grandpa. Maybe she’ll understand more that helping around the house is so important, because I never eat the strawberries.

Recently I have twice been made aware of my inadequacies as an instructor. It wasn’t intentional. And I believe that neither person really believes me to be inadequate. I took the term onto myself, based on what I heard from them. In all my twenty five years of teaching, it never occurred to me what I am lacking.

Both are fellow trainers, riders, and coaches. One has a current lesson program and the other does clinics. Both are wonderful people and friends. But I heard what they said. And I took it to heart, however unintentional it was.

I am a hunter jumper trainer. I am best suited to beginner riders. I love the up/downers just learning to post, the ones learning to canter and navigate a course successfully. Once you master being able to jump a 2’6″-3 course technically correctly and successfully then I am not going to be the trainer to take you beyond that height. I am ok with that. I am more than ok with it. I love the littles, even the adult beginners make me smile with their worries and their joy in the small advancements. Don’t send me an adult that knows their way around a 3′ course. They ask too many questions, have too many fears or too much confidence, and are too high maintenance for me.

I am a certified Level III American Riding Instructor’s Association instructor. I am a graduate pony club student, and I am a student of horsemanship and safety. I am NOT, however, a prior student, rider, or worker of anyone famous, anyone that has shown on the East or West coast, anyone who has jumped in a Grand Prix, or had laborers to make their horses fancy. I was not taught a lot of lateral work or fancy dressage moves. In fact I did not study dressage at all. I did not go to a college dedicated to horse or riding related education. I studied business at Texas A&M University. But when I was 14 I was trusted enough to teach the littles that my own instructors didn’t want to bother with. When I was in college I was hired to teach a show jumper’s small daughter. After college, after six years in the medical event planning world, I was hired to teach beginners at a local stable. I dropped everything and signed up. I found my calling. And I’ve never looked back.

The instructors I learned from in my childhood shaped me in so many positive ways. I learned how to be self-sufficient because my Mom sat in the car during my lessons. Or dropped me off to go with my trainers to shows. I was taught by two of the best people I’ve ever known – a husband and wife team – that taught me how to be and also how NOT to be. I watched other trainers scream and yell and get angry. Mine never did. I watched other riders get frustrated and smack their horses and pull on the reins hard. I was schooled in compassion and empathy instead. I learned how to bathe my own horse, how to wrap his legs, how to clip, how to clean his stall to perfection. I learned never to panic, even when a horse was still wearing a blanket on an 80 degree afternoon. Just go quietly remove it yourself, no hysteria needed. I learned to guide and grow and get on again. I learned to ride when it was 110 or 32 degrees, that drinking water came from the hose and that sweat and dirt made me happy.

I learned that the barn was my happy place. I learned that I wanted to make my own barn a happy place for kids and adults alike. That I wanted my horses to be horses, happy and content and internally always smiling out in their large paddocks with their sheds, grass and a friend.

I learned that presentation matters but not at any cost. I watched other riders with their shiny stirrups and vowed to make mine even shinier. I saw other pony girls show in dirty, torn jodphurs and was appalled. I watched grooms clean muzzles and hooves and boots and copied what they did. I learned that the horse ALWAYS comes first, something my own daughter is still struggling to learn in this entitled world we live in. I learned to wash and condition and brush a tail until it shined.

I learned that I was CAPABLE. From these two trainers, I learned to be kind, patient and compassionate. I learned that HARD CORE and HARD WORK ETHIC are not always the same thing. That disappointment hurts, that dedication and determination are built with time. I learned that safety matters, to get off a crazy horse, your pride isn’t worth the risk. To always wear a helmet because anything can happen. That pride comes in the form of progress and persistence, education and exhaustion from a job well done, not necessarily in ribbons won.

These things are what I teach my own students. I didn’t need to train under someone famous, in an environment I would never have been comfortable in. I didn’t need to leave home, change my address or test my ethics.

One of the most important things I learned is that you don’t have to be wealthy to enjoy this sport. My trainers weren’t wealthy but they were comfortable. They had a house with a lovely barn and yard. Eventually they bought an RV. They were happy and still are. They never had a groom that I know of. As a daughter of a military veteran, we did not have tons of money flowing in either. But my parents did everything they could to encourage my riding. I went to maybe four or five local shows a year. I did not win any major year end awards. I had a medium pony that was diagnosed with navicular disease. I leased two other ponies. Eventually my parents were able to buy me a $1500 thoroughbred off the track that my trainers said was perfect for me, and who would only go backwards at first. I had that horse until he died at 28.

I learned that I wanted to create a barn free of drama, free of high maintenance people. I wanted a safe haven for horses and people alike. I want barn rats, and smiles and friendships. I wanted the love of the horse to be what binds us all together. I wanted the families that would not normally be able to afford this sport. I wanted to teach beginners and intermediate riders everything my own trainers taught me. I now have a house. And a barn and a lovely yard. My husband and I do all the work ourselves. I do not yet have an RV. But I am happy. And so are my students and horses.

I’m jumping on the bandwagon. Going to buy myself a 35 oz Yeti stainless steel cup with a handle. Just spent an HOUR perusing Amazon for my cup of choice. Pink. Pink with glitter. Navy blue. With straw, without straw (straw is a must). Dishwasher safe? Reviews? Cost? What a way to waste some time! Thoroughly enjoyable nonetheless. Not 40 oz… that’s too big. Not 20 oz. That’s too small and mostly don’t have handles. The handle is what got me… how convenient! I definitely need one of those. Because there aren’t fifteen other stainless steel cups in my cupboard that I could use. All without handles. Therefore deemed completely useless.

Those of you that know me well might be thinking… she only drinks Sonic drinks anyway… what does she need a cup with a handle for? Well, friends, I’ll tell you. Because I think about it every day. I feel tremendous guilt over it. Friends and family roll their eyes at me and I was once told (in front of my three year old) that all I drink is poison. I am addicted to Diet Coke. There. I said it. I have said many times in the past that the only good thing about winter is that your Diet Cokes stay cold. I have told friends there’s no way I’m giving them up. That’s one thing I can’t do.

And I’m not. I’m drinking a Diet Coke from Sonic as I type this. (Obviously as my Yeti cup isn’t even ordered yet). I am going to CUT DOWN though. Hopefully by a lot. I’m going to fill this cup up every morning and drink it all before lunch. I’m going to use it while I teach lessons. With water in it. (That definitely has to be clarified as White Claw looks a lot like water and Baby Girl knows to ask me what’s in my cup before she takes it.) I drink Diet Coke for breakfast. I drink it all day long. Probably not a healthy thing to do. I realize this, have always realized it and didn’t ever need anyone to point this out to me. It’s like smoking. Of COURSE you know. But you do it anyway.

I have tried so many things, so many ways to be healthier. Joined OptaVIA in October 2021. That didn’t last long – I did lose some weight and that was good. But not sustainable for me. I gained all my weight due to stress from handling things with my parents for five years. Comfort food. Food on the go. Chocolate. Wine. Trying to cook what my Dad liked to eat, or just buying him (and myself) fast food. The man weighed twelve pounds so he wasn’t concerned. I didn’t realize how much weight I had gained until I saw pictures of myself from my Dad’s memorial. Oh God. Wow. That’s when I signed up for OptaVIA. Met a lovely lady, Julie Armstrong, through it, who is a very inspiring person. But it just wasn’t for me.

I tried the weight loss shot for over a year. That did not work at all. I think I lost five pounds, which I immediately gained back when I stopped the shot. That shit’s way too expensive to keep using when it isn’t really working. Before my Dad’s death I had been involved in CrossFit. I never lost any weight while doing that either. Last summer I joined again but quickly figured out that, while MANY older ladies do participate in that successfully, I wasn’t going to be one of them. After having foot surgery in November of 2021 I wasn’t willing to jump rope again. Or box jump. Or do any weight training involving my neck. And burpees are just out of the question anyway. The parts of my neck and back that aren’t fused are shot with nerve pain and spasms.

I tried getting back into riding. Again, the pain. I took a couple of yoga classes – what a joke! For me. My body doesn’t bend that way and my brain doesn’t slow down or relax enough to enjoy the experience. I don’t even like to sit still long enough to get my hair done. Or my nails. Pure torture. And the supplements. Oh Lord the amount of medications and supplements… anti-depressants, thyroid something, acid reflux stopper, muscle relaxer, iron, vitamin D, vitamin B, fish oil, probiotics, I could go on and on. Which leads me to …

Nucific. Bio X4 or something like that. A host of supplements all wrapped into one in order to fix your gut health and a myriad of other things. You take one three times a day, before you eat. I’ve been doing it a week. Any changes? Not yet. But I’m still optimistic. Today I read the recipe book they sent along with the pills. You have got to be kidding me. If I LIKED eating any of that, if I “drank water,” “exercised daily,” “cut out sugar,” “ate 50% of my meal as veggies,” etc, I wouldn’t be in the mess I’m in! Here are some of the ingredients they want me to A) have on hand and B) have time to put together into something edible: black beans, avocado, spinach, flaxseed, turkey sausage, paprika, cumin, olive oil, raisins, ginger, horseradish flakes, zucchini, nutmeg, parsnips, bell peppers, kale, pumpkin seeds. And more. I am not a chef. None of this save the avocado and olive oil live in my house.

I did say I’m optimistic. That’s because I do feel like gut health is important, and I’m really hoping that I can at least get this under control with the amount or probiotics and other stuff that lives in these supplements. I’m hoping to gain more energy. Lift the fog of depression somewhat. Sleep less, be more productive. And all this got me to thinking…. sugar. sugar. sugar. sugar. I KNOW it causes weight gain, sluggish thinking, bad gut bacteria etc. What I’m finally ready to admit to, and hopefully change, is the amount of artificial sweeteners I inhale every day.

When I was in college I gained weight. I forced myself to start drinking Diet Coke instead of regular Coke. Now I can’t stand regular Coke and won’t touch it. I did lose some weight. I am not a fan of water, and please don’t tell me to drink flavored water because unless it’s sparkly and flavored with alcohol I’m not into it. I’m going to have to force myself to do this, too. I’m not into starving myself or cooking. I’m not into exercising until I fall down dead. I hate cardio (Mom smoking while pregnant with me probably has something to do with my lung capacity being close to zero.)

So what is in my capacity to change? What can I do to create change? How will I change it? Will buying the fancy cup spark my inner will to wake up and come alive? Probably not. But it won’t hurt, and it will remind me of what I am trying to achieve. Start tomorrow? Start when my cup comes in? No. I’m actually going to start today. I’m about to go teach a lesson… I’m going to take a large cup of water with me. It won’t have a handle but that’ll just be something to look forward to. Wish me luck, my friends. I’m going to need it.

I know what heartbreak is. And I know horses. And those two things always go together. Whether you are a rider, trainer, professional, amateur, kid, instructor or just a backyard pony lover there will come a time when heartbreak and horses meet up.

Maybe your horse colics, maybe he must be euthanized, maybe not. Either way, seeing the pain in his eyes and seeing his head low with no welcoming nickers coming your way, you will experience heartbreak. I had a foal once, his name was Bo. He was a super little palomino cutie and he was going to be the last pony I was going to break. From the moment I picked Bo up in the trailer I knew he was going to be special. I had him for five months. One night a summer storm came and I found Bo on the ground the next morning, basically unresponsive. We could not save him. That might have been the last time I cried over a horse. Somewhere along the way our hearts just can’t take any more, and we find a way to shut down our emotions. Oh, the tears come out in other ways and at other times, but in that moment, in that place, there is no way I’m going to cry. My heart will be breaking, shattering, and I will not shed a tear.

The craziest thing I remember about Bo is that he never made a sound. Not from the day I met him. He was a foal, one month shy of his first birthday when he died, and yet…. he never made a single sound. No nicker, no grunts, no whinnies, no neighs. Nothing. I still wonder about that. Not even when he was lying on the ground, in so much pain he couldn’t stand. There was only one answer then. We couldn’t even get him in a trailer. There was no way to save him.

Before Bo, on another day, a client’s horse went insane over a cow that was loose beyond our property. She completely freaked out. Ended up slamming her head into a post in the paddock. Broke her pelvis, maybe her neck. She couldn’t get up, couldn’t move. It was raining and as I stood with the Dad of the little girl that owned her, I cried for that loss. She had only owned her for four months. She was a beautiful soul, this horse. Which matched the free spirit of her little girl. It was a damn shame.

There was the time I had to sell my step-daughter’s pony. Sometimes in the horse business we have to make incredibly tough choices. As he left in the trailer I was beside myself with grief. He nickered as they drove away and I buried my head in my husband’s chest. I knew I would never get him back. When a client’s horse left for Colorado and I understood that I would never see him again, a little part of me went with him. When I heard that a filly I had sold to a western riding lady had coliced and died six months after she purchased her from me – a filly I adored – I went into a deep despair for awhile. I was angry. And sad. And completely heartbroken. When my husband’s horse foundered and had to be put down, he didn’t cry. So I cried for him.

So many horses have come and gone in my life. Horses I have loved, that I’ve fought for, won on, cheered on and trusted with my life. They haven’t all belonged to me. When my own horse, Jaxon, died at 29 years old, out in a retirement pasture, I bawled. When a former student’s horse that was in the same retirement pasture died years later I bawled again. Recently I heard of another old lesson horse that had been retired there had also passed away of old age. I didn’t cry this time. I was super sad, but happy that he’d had a long time to relax in his retirement. He was an excellent horse. Some of you may remember old Benny. He died at Thanksgiving.

There are too many sad stories. Too many tales to tell. The problem with horses is that they really get under your skin. And they are fragile. They are not as tough as we’d like them to be. Small stomachs that are sensitive to just about everything, they have no ability to throw up and a penchant to eat things they shouldn’t. They find the one thing in the pasture that could injure them and impale themselves on it. They slip and strain a tendon. They roll and get cast in their stall. They work themselves into an anxiety induced frenzy at a horseshow. Or in a trailer. Or somehow break a leg in a paddock that doesn’t even have a tree. They can’t handle weather changes. They need bubble wrap and padded stalls. Can’t be left out with a halter on in case they hang themselves up. They do stupid things. Like climbing on gates and walls.

And then there’s the horse you see in a paddock as you drive by… farm equipment and machinery everywhere. Goats and weeds. Rusted water troughs and broken gates. And you wonder why THESE horses don’t get hurt when yours do just by looking sideways at them? It’s a mystery for sure.

I have been doing this professionally for twenty three years. I have seen so much. Been part of so much. Loved and lost so much. Watched my child cry and grieve over her broken pony and come out stronger on the other side. Been side by side with clients, with parents of little girls who had excruciating decisions to make. Held a friend’s hand. Drank with her and shushed her when she vowed to never love another horse.

I’ve been down in the shavings, or in the dirt or mud. I’ve had rain and snow and sleet on my face walking a horse with colic in the middle of the night while my two year old slept alone in the house. Driven a truck and trailer that weren’t mine through a rain storm to get the pony to the emergency vet. Held a horse’s leg together on my knees while he bled through copious towels until the vet could arrive to stitch him together.

I will not cry. But I will grieve just the same. Inside my heart is broken any time something happens that I could not stop, could not prevent, cannot fix. I will do everything I can to ease the pain of the horse (or pony) and whoever loves it. My heart aches as much as anyone’s, my pain internal. I will not give up, I believe in miracles. I have seen them happen. I will carry on. When horses and heartbreak meet I will do everything I can to create a happy ending. I might not show my pain but it is there, carried along in my heart with every horse I’ve ever loved. Every client I’ve ever cared for. Every little kid I’ve ever taught and some I haven’t. I’ve learned to save the tears and emotion for another day.

Because I am a horsewoman. And always will be.

School has finally started. After 445 days of summer vacation Baby Girl has started fourth grade at last. I’ve got the puppy playpen set up in my office so she won’t whine and I’m watching the cat stalk around it with her tail twitching. The cat is supposed to be outside. But she is so fascinated by this puppy that she has insisted on being inside today so that she can follow me and the puppy around the house. I can only assume she’s a tad bit jealous, worried that her Queen of the Castle role is being usurped by a tiny canine.

This summer was literally 96 days. May 18th to August 23rd. The longest summer of my life. We started and ended with a bang, having gone on a Disney Cruise a week after school let out and getting a new puppy four days before school began again. Yet somehow I am still the most unfun parent on the planet. During the summer we went on a week long vacation, we went to the water park, to the zoo, shopping, nails done, hair colored (twice), ears pierced, to the mall, to meet friends, swimming, birthday parties, the movies and did two weeks of summer camp. We went to a major horse show where Baby Girl rode well and won Reserve Champion. These are all the things we did outside the house when I could convince her to leave it.

Baby Girl is a homebody. Every day during the summer vacation she would prefer to stay at home on her ipad and/or computer. Occasionally play with her toys or do painting. Every morning was a struggle to get her to go outside and ride her ponies. Every afternoon was a beating to get her off her electronics. Sure, I’m impressed by all the things she can create in Minecraft but I really don’t think this, and watching endless YouTube videos, is the best use of her time.

Every time I laid down the law and made her quit the electronics it would then become my responsibility (according to her) to entertain her. 500 golf cart rides later (she learned to drive it), feeling as if you are heading straight into the ovens of Hell, it finally became a little less fun. The trampoline got blown away by a June storm and we ended up selling the pool she never used. One day I had to help her make a UNICORN HOUSE. For her plastic unicorns. That she doesn’t play with. We had to glue cardboard to a wood bottom that she painted, we had to add corners so that the sand wouldn’t come out. You’d think this would be a fun little project but all I can think of is where is this thing going to end up when she’s done with it? It’s just one more thing to add to her room which is overflowing with crap already. She’s a hoarder, this one. Can’t get her to get rid of anything, especially her stuffies. Of which she has thousands. Picked up three more on our Disney trip alone.

Trying to get her out of the house to run errands was a trial. She’d throw a fit. Demand to be allowed to stay in the car. Wear her pj pants and no shoes. Then, we had to listen to all her favorite songs in the car. Gone are the days of the Disney songs that I also enjoy. Now we’ve got people I’ve never heard of before like Ava Max and Elijah N. I try and introduce her to classic stuff like Nickleback and end up having to play “Rock Star” (a highly inappropriate song) eight hundred times, and arguing whether I should play it with her friends in the car (I didn’t). Upon reflection I should have listened to that song before I played it for her in the first place. My mistake. So I finally put on “Brave” by Sara Bareilles and luckily we have a new favorite. Have you ever heard “The Wellerman Shanty?” Don’t. It’ll be stuck in your head for a year. Roxette was a flop though I did try to get through “Joyride” with her. She wasn’t interested.

And yes, we rode. Well she did. But she’s got one pony that’s too old to be ridden, one pony that can only walk around, and one pony that bites her at every turn. So it wasn’t a terribly successful riding summer. Not to mention the heat. I love the heat. BUT. 105 degrees by 10 am for weeks on end is a little intense, even for me. So back inside it was. Punctuated by days out as illustrated above. Y’all. This shit is expensive! Going to zoo was over $100. Movies and water park over $50. You don’t want to know how much the cruise was. Every time you want to do something fun outside the house you have to pawn another piece of your mom’s jewelry. It blows my mind.

This post is a little disjointed. That’s because my mom brain is thoroughly over stimulated by this summer of hell we just endured. I have so many thoughts and things I’d like to say that I never got a chance to sit down and write about this summer. The grocery store. Going to buy groceries with Baby Girl is a nightmare. She wants to push the cart. Hang off the edge of the cart. Sit underneath it. Get inside of it. Jesus. She also wants to tell me what to do all the time, which aisles to go down. What I do or don’t need to buy. Whether electrolytes actually work. How many candies she’s allowed to have. This kid is strong willed and basically feral. One of the things I am most looking forward to doing alone again is going to the store. Also sitting on the toilet without her calling for me.

She’s also sassy. She has the attitude of a teenager. One minute she’ll be playing Barbies like she’s just a little girl and next thing you know she’s rolling her eyes and back talking. Because I reminded her of something. “I knooooowwwww” is her favorite expression. She tried to tell me that electrolytes don’t work, after first asking what they are. She insisted that they’re just water (whatever that means) and then responding with “so you’re calling me dumb?” when I said she doesn’t know everything. Lord bless me for not losing my shit in the grocery store right then and there. Is this what a nine year old is? A happy five year old playing Barbies morphed with a sneering, snarling 13 year old that knows everything? Just yesterday I refused to take her back into Walmart to buy things from the gumball machines after we checked out. This, apparently, makes me the most unfun Mom in the world. She was incensed that I would not do it. She had quarters in the car and she saw the machines full of junk as we were walking out. We had the puppy with us, as well. Needless to say it wasn’t going to happen. I told her to remember to bring her quarters into Walmart next time. She huffed and puffed and snarled at me. I kept walking. Of course by the time we got to the car she was over it and never mentioned it again. This is one of her good qualities. She doesn’t hold a grudge. And she forgets about things quickly.

At any rate. Today she is finally in school. And I am finally sitting down to cleanse my soul of all the joys and miseries of this past summer. (She did love the cruise and is ecstatic over the puppy). The first thing I did this morning after I got back from dropping her off was to put Luna (the puppy) back in her crate and lay down for a quiet, peaceful, uninterrupted nap. It was blissful. Now I’m writing, which is something else that makes me happy.

I’ll spend the rest of my day doing laundry and taking the puppy outside to go potty. It’s quiet here. I hope she’s having as good a day in school as I’m having here at home by myself! Sometimes we Mamas just need our kid to be in school for eight hours a day. I might not even need a glass of wine tonight. That remains to be seen of course, taking her attitude after school into consideration.

So all I have left to say is Bless the teachers!!! I’m your number one fan.