The Seasons of Life: A Farewell to the Saddle
Fall has arrived in Northeast Ohio. The leaves are changing and gently tumbling to the ground. We’ve been blessed with warm golden days, while the cool, crisp air only makes its appearance at night — perfect weather for sleeping with the windows open.
Pumpkins now sit proudly on front porches, and pumpkin spice everything is officially back on every menu. As I sit here, watching the leaves fall and swirl in the breeze, I can’t help but reflect on how nature’s changing seasons mirror the seasons of our lives. Some transitions we welcome with joy. Others, we face with a heavy heart.
This past week delivered that truth to me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
It began on Tuesday with a long-planned shoulder surgery at Cleveland Clinic. Shout out to Dr. Charles Cogan and his team for their outstanding care and kindness. I went in knowing there would be discomfort and a road to recovery, but I had underestimated just how emotional I become when I’m in deep physical pain.
When pain takes hold, my usual can-do attitude and tough exterior start to unravel. Suddenly, the little girl I’ve worked hard to protect over the years shows up — vulnerable, afraid, and very much in need. My pain management options were limited due to my body’s anaphylactic reaction to opioids, so the post-surgery days were rough — just Tylenol and a lot of grit.
But it wasn’t until Friday that everything really came crashing down.
That morning, our vet came for Blue’s annual wellness check. Blue is my last horse — the final piece of a lifelong love of horses and farm life. A few years ago, we lost our other two horses to age and illness. Blue was meant to be my last ride, my companion into my golden years. We bought him four years ago with that dream in mind.
Just a few months after bringing him home, we learned he had cancer. Looking back, I believe the previous owners may have known and chose to pass that heartbreak along. Still, I don’t regret bringing Blue into our lives. He has undergone surgery and chemotherapy over the past few years, always bouncing back stronger and full of heart. But during Friday’s checkup, the news was devastating: the cancer is back — and this time, it’s more aggressive.
In that moment, the dreams I had so carefully preserved — riding again, recovering from surgery, getting back to the barn, reclaiming pieces of myself that had been on pause while caring for my mom — all came crashing down like the autumn leaves around me.
There will be no triumphant return to the saddle. There will be no more lazy mornings in the barn, feeding Blue in my pajamas and Crocs while barn swallows chirp above me. Those quiet, sacred moments — they’re slipping away. And I know, deep down, that pursuing more treatment for Blue would only prolong the inevitable. It’s time to let him go. It’s time to let this chapter go.
Farm life has been good to us. Our animals live with dignity, joy, and love. Even our vet jokes that if he had to come back as a horse or a cow, he’d want to live here. But caring for the farm is no small task, and Farm Boy Jim and I are not as young as we once were. It’s time to close this season — not in bitterness, but in gratitude.
Much like the turn from summer to fall, and the inevitable coming of winter, this change brings with it grief. I will miss my horses. I will miss the rhythm of barn chores and the serenity of morning rides. I will miss the smell of hay and the nuzzle of a velvety nose. Just as winter covers the world in cold and silence, I know a season of mourning is coming — and it will be heavy and still.
But I also know that spring will come.
Spring always comes.
It may be quiet at first. A seedling pushing up through frozen ground. A dream not yet formed. A joy not yet visible. But it will come. And when it does, it will carry with it all the love, the loss, and the strength born in these passing seasons.
So, here’s to the saddle I’ll no longer ride in… and to the next beautiful ride, whatever it may be.
Kerry
