I recently read an advanced reader’s copy of a fabulous memoir, A Leap of Faith Farm, by Cheryl Suzanne Heide. When an opportunity presented itself to live their dream, Cheryl and her husband bought a small horse farm in Minnesota. It’s a heartfelt story that brought on my own memories.

Years ago, I read a book about the deep bond that can form between women and horses. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the title, but it noted that spending time with horses does more than lift your spirits—it can calm both body and mind. Being around horses prompts the brain to release the hormone oxytocin, often called the “love or bonding hormone,” which promotes trust, comfort, and connection. Horses are also remarkably attuned to people. They can sense changes in our heart rate and breathing, and when we’re calm, they often match our rhythm in a process known as co-regulation. The result is a peaceful connection that helps both horse and human relax. I’m sure that’s true for men and horses, too. However, many women seem to form these bonds especially quickly when caring for horses.

When I was young, I was one of those girls who always wanted a horse. I think that seed was planted when I was two years old, after my parents bought me a cowgirl outfit complete with red boots. The dream never came true, but I spent time on a horse ranch east of Austin while taking riding lessons at Nameless Valley Ranch. The ranch owner and my instructor asked if I was interested in leading trail rides on Sunday afternoons. I contacted a friend who also loved riding, and we got on board. We were allowed to choose our horses and were introduced to several. I pointed to a sweet-looking buckskin quarter horse/paint. The owner said that not many people liked riding him because he had only two speeds: run and stop. But when he turned his head, looked me in the eye, and said: “Choose me.” I did. His name was Ned. My friend chose a stunning palomino with the romantic name of Cherokee. That gig lasted only a few months before the ranch was sold. That was in the mid-80s, when development took the Hill Country by storm.

You might recall from an earlier blog post that my mother and I had what I call a silent relationship. We didn’t talk much, especially about her life before I came along. So I was often left wondering what she thought and how she felt. Once, when I was visiting at home, I was going through a box of old black-and-white photos taken before I was born when I came across one of our backyard, with a horse standing near the fence. My mother was out running errands. So I asked my dad about the horse. He told me it was Champ, my mother’s horse. She used to ride it around town with two friends who also owned horses. I was speechless; then I was angry, not because she never told me about him, but because she stood in the way of my having a horse as a child.

My parents had the chance to buy a house and a few acres in the country, a few miles from town. My dad was excited, but my mother put her foot down and said, “No!” I wasn’t excited about moving either. Dad wasn’t ready to give up, so he recruited me to help change her mind by promising to buy me a horse if we moved to the country. I was ready to pack my bags. My mother won out, and we stayed in town. In fact, my sisters and I still own the home.

After learning that my mom kept the horse in the backyard—it was a huge yard, by the way—I asked her about it, and she gave me her usual answer, the one I often heard: “I don’t remember.” Now I was livid. How could she not remember owning a horse? I imagined several reasons: it became too difficult to keep a horse in town; it became too expensive; or I came along, and she didn’t have time for the horse? My anger turned to sadness. Perhaps the hardest part wasn’t that my mother had once owned the horse I’d always dreamed of. It was realizing that an entire chapter of her life remained closed to me. Champ wasn’t just a forgotten horse—he was another reminder of how little I knew about my own mother.

But maybe that’s not true. I like to think my mother and I shared a special experience—an emotional bond with a horse. I would have been heartbroken not to be able to keep Champ, and I’m certain she was too.