Ben & Jen Shepard

I have been meaning to write this series for a very long time.  Because Ben and I are currently at a crossroads in our lives, the time seems right to finally finish it.  Crossroads tend to make you take stock of things, analyze your life and put things in a different order than they were in when circumstances were mundane.  Crossroads are also a place where you have to make a choice.  I am hoping that by looking back, remembering what it is I love most, I will find strength to make the right choices for our future.

Thinking about the road that has brought me here, I find that my life is split into two distinct parts.  There is the childhood me, in love with horses and spending every waking moment I could with them.  Then, the Barn was everything to me, my playground, my classroom and sanctuary.  Then there is the me after all of that was lost.  The rift between the two halves is one of the most understated tragedies in my life.  It happened slowly, quietly, and without much of a fight on my part.  We’ll get to that part, but suffice it to say, for now, that it has caused a divided life.   The people and places I knew when I was riding at the Barn are now long gone.   Those who are most important to me now did not know me then, in some of the most significant years of my childhood.  The exceptions are, of course, my parents and my brother, Eric.  But other than those few witnesses, it feels like two completely different lives both belonging to the same person.

For a long time I could not think too much about this divide; there was too much hurt and shame there.  Maybe time does heal all wounds.  Maybe it simply makes it a little easier to finally turn around and face them.

I wanted to find a needle and thread that would sew these two pieces of my life back together.  Through a few timid attempts, I found that there was already a common thread – something that flowed from one part into the other and connected them without my effort.  There were those who did more to shape who I am during those delicate years than the people, places or the years of changing circumstances.  They were my silent teachers, my constant companions.  They were the horses I have known.  They remain a part of me.  And I would like to finally tell our stories.

My parents first brought me to the Barn because they thought horseback riding would be a fun hobby for me.  I remember them slinging an English saddle over the fence and letting me sit on it.  I was hooked.

I was four years old.

When I got to climb onto a real pony, I was thrilled although a little afraid too.  Fancy was small and black with a spikey mane and deep liquid eyes.  She appeared to be every little girl’s dream.  I quickly found out that she was also stubborn, independent and had no qualms about taking full advantage of my inexperience.  It wasn’t long before that small seed of fear began to grow.

My first lessons were on a lunge line, a long lead rope clipped to Fancy’s bridle that my instructor, Lynn, held as we walked and trotted circles around her.   After some time, Lynn wanted us to go off the lead, meaning I was to direct Fancy around the ring by myself.  This was when Fancy began to test me.  Whenever she could, she would grab the bit in her teeth, yank the reins violently out of my hands and speed down the arena toward her stall or outside where shes plunged her head into the grass while the reins dangled helplessly on the ground.  I remember vividly the terror that would overcome me, bringing me to uncontrollable and embarrassed tears.  All I could do was cling to the saddle, alone and desperately waiting for someone to catch up to us and rescue me.

After many instances like this, I began to expect her runaways.  Sensing my anticipation, Fancy was even more inclined toward this horrifying behavior.  Eventually, I was just waiting to lose control, to fall, to find myself hurt and alone with no rescuer.  And so I was relieved when Lynn suggested that it might be best for us to go back on the lunge line.  This, at least, felt safe.  For more than a year I was too scared to let her remove it again.  Safe though it might have been, I was not progressing.  Other kids my age were already cantering, jumping, even riding in horse shows.  But I remained tethered and afraid.  Lynn encouraged me to try again without the lunge line, but to my mind it was an impossible mountain, far too high for me to climb.  I loved riding, and I even loved Fancy despite everything.  But the fear was crippling for me.  And so every Saturday my riding lesson became a battleground between my love of riding and the fear that was taking hold inside of me.  Both my mom and Lynn were concerned for me and told me I didn’t have to continue if I didn’t want to.  And then, one Saturday, completely unexpectedly there came the crossroad, the critical moment where I had to choose.

This challenge came in the form of an enormous, hulking white gelding ironically named Junior.  As I rounded the corner, expecting to see little old Fancy waiting there for me, this giant stopped me in my tracks.  I gawked.  Panic rose, the fear was like a suffocating vine restricting my breathing, my thinking.  I looked up at my mom wide-eyed and she saw my terror.  She brought me aside, knelt down and asked what I wanted to do.  I could try, or we could go home.  I had no words.  Lynn tried all ways of reassuring me that Junior was wonderfully gentle, that he would take care of me, and that she would too.  Looking up at him, tangled up in fear, it was hard to believe.  This was a moment of truth for me.  Love or fear?

Today I am 27 years old, standing at a crossroad and still struggling with this very question.  Dare I make an attempt?  The task looks so enormous.  If I don’t, will I live with regret for the rest of my life?  Will I miss my heart’s desire?  If I do, will I succeed or will I fail?  Will I fall, will I get hurt and who will rescue me?  But the moment is here.  It is staring me in the face and I have to choose.

It has taken me a long time to understand Fancy and why I loved her despite everything.  Only as I look back at her in the light of this crossroad do I see that she had been preparing me for that moment with Junior all along.  Had she always been an easy pony to ride, I might not have had the courage to face this seemingly impossible challenge.  If she had always been obliging, if she had always been safe, then I would have had no store of bravery to draw upon.  But she had tested me all along.  She had constantly been trying my courage so that when a bigger test came, I would already know what it is to persevere.  “Do you really want this, because it will be hard?”  she asked me every week for years.  And every week when I showed up and climbed back in the saddle, without realizing it, I had said, “Yes, I really want this.”  Even though she was not teaching me to canter or jump like the others, she was teaching me perseverance.  She was teaching me how to choose what I love over what I fear.

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