At first I was reluctant to go horseback riding. I was utterly convinced it would be a waste of my time. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I started in the fall riding in the laid-back Western style and after a month or so, switched to the disciplined English style. By the beginning of the summer, I started with the smallest jumps. It was nerve wracking at first, painful in the unbalanced landing, but the few seconds in air were indescribable to me. I hadn’t felt such joy since the beginning of the abuse. I left for that house that summer and only my body returned.
Halfway through the year, my family had enough money for lessons again, and I returned with a heavy but determined heart.
Yet again, by the summer, I was up to cantering. Which is a fast paced, extended run where you are balanced upright in the air on your heels, with your hands supporting you on the horse’s neck.
It is purely exhilerating.
My smile hadn’t been so genuine, so full of life, well, I couldn’t even remember when. It was stretched across my face in an idiotic grin, my eyes dancing wildly with the rush of adrenaline, and heart pratically bursting in my happiness. There was no more fear eroding my mind, the pain clouding my soul had withdrawn, I never wanted to let go.
Yet after stirring my horse into a gallop, I lost my balance and slid to the side. Yelping in surprise before hitting the ground, I managed to hold on and laugh in relief as the horse slowed. My trainer freaked, but I nothing got passed my glowing face.