09/13/2026
I am not a forever home.
People can call me a horse trader. I sell horses for a living, and I’m not ashamed of that. But sometimes I wish people could see what happens before the sale instead of only seeing the money changing hands.
Because these horses are not just numbers to me.
I know the ones who come in scared. The ones who have been passed around too many times. The ones who don’t know what it feels like to be trusted. I spend time with them. I feed them. I work with them. I learn them. I figure out what makes them tick, what scares them, what makes them happy.
And somewhere along the way, I get attached.
That’s the part nobody sees.
They see me advertise them. They see me answer the messages. They see me load them onto the trailer.
They don’t see me stand in the stall the night before they leave, knowing that tomorrow someone else gets the horse I spent weeks or months getting to know.
They don’t see me watch that trailer pull out of the driveway and wonder if I’ll ever know how their story ends.
Because the truth is, I don’t get to keep them all.
I can’t.
There will always be another horse that needs a soft place to land. Another one that needs someone to believe there is more to them than the reason they ended up in my barn.
So I keep doing it.
I love them knowing I have to let them go.
Maybe that’s the hardest kind of love there is.
I am not their forever home.
I’m just the person who gets them ready for it.
And sometimes, when the barn gets quiet after they leave, I sit there and miss a horse that was never really mine to keep in the first place.
People can call me whatever they want.
I know what I do.
I don’t just sell horses.
I help them find their people.
And sometimes I have to break my own heart to do it.
