By Jan Lambert

I was a horse-crazy kid—the kind who prayed for a horse, dreamed about horses, and couldn’t think of anything better than living and breathing all things equine. We lived on a farm, so it seemed like having one was possible. But despite all my wishing, there were no horses. The farm belonged to my paternal grandparents, who told me it was my mother who wouldn’t allow it. My mother said it was my grandparents’ fault. Either way, the answer was no.

But you can’t keep a horsewoman off her steed. I rode sheep until I outgrew them, then graduated to calves. When they got too big and joined the dairy herd, I just waited for the next batch. When I was thirteen, we moved off the farm and into town. I missed the animals deeply, but I still made friends with every horse I could get close to. Owning one, though, still seemed out of reach.

Then the summer I was fifteen, everything changed.

My maternal grandmother invited my sister and me—one at a time, alternating weeks—to stay with her and help take care of my great-grandfather. One evening, a cheerful friend of hers came by for dinner. He told stories of his ranching days—stories full of horses—and I was completely enthralled. Then came the miracle: he mentioned he still had horses and asked if I’d like to come ride one after dinner.

Would I? OH YES.

His name was Warren, and after that night, he picked me up every evening to ride. Not long after, my grandmother hired someone full-time to help, and I returned home. But something new had begun: Warren continued to let me ride. For the next two years, I spent almost every day riding, training, and showing horses with him. I must have ridden over a hundred different horses. I joined his riding club, went on trail rides, entered weekly play-days, and competed in local horse shows. I even joined a 4-H horse club.

If I could have lived at his place, I would have. Just to be near the horses at night, too. My heart was full. My spirit was at peace.

Those three years were everything to me.

Then my parents divorced. The parent who got custody of me moved 150 miles away. Before I left, Warren gave me one last, beautiful gift: a bay Quarter Horse mare I had trained, shown, and even won ribbons and a Grand Champion trophy with. He could’ve kept her and made good money selling her. But he saw the bond between us and honored that with his generosity.

We were only separated twice in her life—and both times, it was because I got married.

Strangely, in all the ways I imagined marriage, I never imagined it with horses. My first marriage took me to another state for three years, and my horse stayed behind. My second marriage meant another move—this time hundreds of miles away. I didn’t see my horses for eight months.

It took a suicide attempt for me to realize I couldn’t live like that anymore. I was in an intolerable situation. So I went “home.” Back to my horse. I got a job. Started riding again—even with a three-year-old son. He learned to play nearby while I rode. As he got older, we rode double. And eventually, when my mare had a foal, we each had our own horse to ride.

The second time I left my horse, it was again because of marriage. And again, we were reunited after another suicide attempt. My second husband and I were poor university students. But I quit school, got a job, and went back for my horses. Not long after, I filed for divorce.

Looking back, I see the Law of Perpetual Transmutation at work through it all. I saw myself with a horse—and when the time was right, my life made space for a horse. When I had a child, life brought another one so we could ride together. But when I imagined marriage, I never pictured horses. And so my life as a wife was, tragically, horseless—until the ache became unbearable.

That pain taught me to go inward. To ask: What do I truly need to be whole?

And the answer has always been: I need a horse in my life.

It’s part of who I am—just like some people are born to fly jets, drive race cars, quilt, paint, or dance. It’s written into my Life Goal Statement. And because of the Law of Perpetual Transmutation, I know that what I hold in my heart—and keep choosing to see—will find a way to manifest.

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