Julie Tullos

I watched the young girl walk to her car behind her parents and little sister. With a big braces-filled smile on her face she carried her new saddle proudly. One that she herself had paid for, from working at a barn all summer. She was maybe 14.

I watched and I thought, I’m so happy for her, what a great achievement, to buy your own lovely saddle at that age.

I think I was 45 ish when I bought that saddle that she now held proudly in her arms. It is an Antares, an older version, but super comfortable and still in excellent condition. I was around 45 because I had waited my whole life to buy myself an expensive saddle. And as she walked away, you would think that I would have been sad to see it go.

I had put the saddle up for sale about six months ago. After not having ridden in about two years. Most people would have kept their saddle, in case, just in case, they might want to ride again someday.

That saddle represented thirty five years of riding, hard work, sweat equity and hard earned cash. I have owned several other saddles in my life, but I think the most I ever paid for one was about $500. English saddles, at their highest, can cost up to $8500 these days, if not more. It is an insane amount of money. But everything is like that now. Buffalo leather, made in France, with tiny crystals embedded in the “logo” and personalized edging and personalized fittings. It’s no longer a “one saddle fits all” type of deal, but a “who will sponsor me and get me a free saddle if I sell one to all my clients” type situation.

In my day we used whatever saddle we could lay our hands on. Propped it up with padding and foam pads and gel pads and what we called lollipop pads to fit any type of horse we sat on. (I just googled that and they still make them!) I did not grow up in a fancy barn though so my experience with less than stellar equipment is probably a bit skewed. As a trainer, I always felt just a little bit left out. I couldn’t afford what it seemed like all the other trainers had. I had an old Collegiate I bought used for $500 back in 2008/2009 which I used until I could finally buy my dream saddle. I was stuck on Antares, having ridden in one a few times and not believing that my tushy could be so incredibly cushy in a saddle. I was awed and determined to have one of my own!

And when I finally bought that saddle, at the ripe old age of 45 ish (because I’m old and can’t remember what I went into that room for, much less what EXACT age I was when I bought it), I paid $1980. I nearly choked as my debit card processed.

I was still training, still riding, and I enjoyed the heck out of that saddle. Then I started to realize… the pain. The amount of pain I was in every time I sat on a horse. My neck just happens to be fully fused in one spot and almost entirely fused in another, right below that one. The first congenital, the second from too many injuries, too many falls, too many times landing in just the wrong spot. It started with a horse rolling over on me when I was fourteen. Then at fifteen my horse tried to run out a gate with me and I hit my head on the fence post, which was unfortunately very sturdy in the ground and not at all soft. What did I learn from that? ALWAYS ALWAYS close the gate to the arena.

Anyway, fast forward to about 33. I am riding a very young, very green Thoroughbred or warmblood (I, again, can’t precisely remember). His name was Willie. I’ll never forget that. He wasn’t mine. We went over a jump and as he landed he spooked to the left and I was unseated to the right. As I was attempting to right myself he spooked AGAIN and I was tossed quite firmly to his left side where I held on to his neck with my fingernails while he bolted down the fence line. I remembered the sturdy fence posts. I was not tempted to try my luck with hitting one of those if I let go. I held on, silently praying, not sure where this would end.

It did end. Inevitably. Willie veered hard to his right as he approached the corner and that was enough to send me sailing about eighteen feet to the left into the corner, landing, of course, directly on my neck. I was lucky. It could have been broken. In fact, there is no evidence to suggest that it was, in fact, NOT fractured in some way. I didn’t have insurance, I didn’t go to the hospital. I spent weeks recovering, barely able to move. I still managed to coach at a horseshow and teach lessons that same week, though. That’s what horse trainers/instructors DO. They keep going, because who is going to to pay for your bills, your groceries, who is going to feed your horses if not you?

Fifteen years after the injury I find that riding is becoming untenable. Over that period of time I see a chiropractor regularly. The chiropractor takes plenty of x-rays. He does an MRI. He discovers the fusions, he discovers the bone spurs and the damaged vertebrae. He tells me that every time I’m on the horse, the movement is causing the muscles above and below this area to have to work extra hard to stabilize my neck. It isn’t any surprise to him that I’m in so much pain. Add in a surgery on my lower back in these years, plus foot surgery, and I’m a little worse for the wear than most people my age.

At 4(7?) I am riding a warmblood gelding amongst my typical pony line-up. He is bouncy, he is jarring, he is difficult to get moving. One cold January day I sit on his back and can’t stop the tears from flowing. I sit and I cry and I finally get off.

I never get back on.

The decision, for me, was made that cold January day when I couldn’t finish the training ride I was being paid to do. There has only been a handful of times since then that I wished I could get back on in order to fix something a rider is having trouble with. But I don’t do it and the feeling passes. It isn’t worth it, the pain is intense most days without creating a situation in which to make it worse. I live on meloxicam, Advil and muscle relaxers. And it’s ok.

It’s ok because I get to watch Baby Girl ride her ponies. I delight in her experiences. I am nervous when she competes ( a strange phenomena for me, as I have never been nervous when any of my students compete!), and I am excited when she places well. I am proud when she completes something difficult or masters a new skill. I am most proud when she comes out of the ring laughing and smiling, regardless of how the course went. I love that she’s delighted to win first place in an under saddle class and that she doesn’t take her pony for granted. I watch how hard she works (usually) and am pleased when her efforts pay off. I enjoy her life with her in a way that is truly special for both of us. Someday all these seeds I’ve planted will sprout and grow and I know she’s going to do incredible things. She wants to be horse trainer/instructor like her Mama, and I am amazed at this because she has definitely seen the low lows that happen in horses, as well as the highest of highs and everything in between.

And so, when I told my husband last night that someone was coming to try out my saddle today, I wasn’t at all sad or regretful. If I ever ride again, it will be in a cushy Western saddle and I will probably go no faster than a walk through the trails and trees that we one day hope to own. It is enough.

After almost forty years spent on horseback, I am content to be unsaddled.

If you are a trainer, owner or anyone who has to feed and care for horses day in and day out you understand that quick glance, that perusal of every paddock, stall or field the minute you walk outside in the morning. Checking to make sure everything is as it should be. That nothing went amiss during the night – during the long hours since the last time you fed and tucked them all in for the evening.

This morning I stepped out… and I couldn’t find Bruno. At first glance he wasn’t there. Prince was standing alone and Bruno was… where? Slight panic comes as I yell inside for my daughter to come help me . I can only imagine he is out behind the hay barn gorging on alfalfa and making himself sick. Was the fence not on? Is it broken somewhere? Did he just slither through regardless of the electric shocks? My mind is quickly addressing each and every scenario.

As she puts on her shirt and shorts (I am in my pj’s and rainboots) I step a little farther away, towards the barn and I see him. In his paddock, in the front corner behind the playhouse. I breathe a sigh of relief and tell my daughter all is well after all.

But this is not the first time, nor will it be the last. Each and every morning is a brand new opportunity for all hell to break loose. Three years ago, on September 13th, 2022 I saw Bruno down through the window of my house. You all know the story, you know how his leg was broken and he spent a full year convalescing.

But that is not the entire story. All is not well that ends well. Three years later Bruno sits in his paddock day after day, doing nothing but eating and occasionally running like hell up and down his paddock as fast as he can go. And you think “wow what a miracle that he can do that!” He can, he does. It is.

I have a deep running anger through my bones about Bruno. I can’t just look at him in his paddock and think “oh I’m so glad I saved him.” I am glad, that isn’t questionable. There was not another choice to be made when I looked into the face of my little girl. Even as I saw his leg dangling and swaying in the trailer. Even as I saw the complete break on the x-ray. I never questioned the choice then.

I question it now. And have, for two years. You might think me heartless but that isn’t what my anger is about. You see, Bruno was and still is an incredibly talented pony. He is smart as a whip and he loves attention. Bruno was our ticket to pony finals, he was the dream I had for my daughter when he was but three years old and she was six. I could see the future and I liked what I saw.

Sure, he hadn’t had much training, not on the ground nor under saddle when I picked him up that late November day in Oklahoma. But as my daughter rode him on the lunge line when we tried him out I just knew that we could make something of the pair of them. He was never perfect. He was wiggly at first, wasn’t sure what a crossrail was. Under the guidance of myself and my daughter’s trainer, we taught him the ropes one crossrail at a time. He learned to go straight. He learned to canter. He learned to jump and he learned how to do a flying lead change. Which he still does, as he’s running like a maniac in his paddock.

And Baby Girl learned with him. She learned to be tough and to persevere. He had a fun trick of ducking his shoulder as he stopped dead causing his rider (and Baby Girl wasn’t the only little girl riding him) to be dumped on the hard ground. He was young. He didn’t like to be cold. We learned that lesson the hard way, at a show where I had JUST body clipped him and it was in the 40’s with icicles hanging from the jump standards. No amount of lunging would make him behave.

There were times he was golden. There were plenty of times when he wasn’t. But I loved him like crazy and so did Baby Girl. Sure, he needed a lot of fine tuning. He needed better manners. But at seven and eight years old Baby Girl was jumping 18″ verticals with him and having a great time. Usually.

And then he broke his leg. And nothing has ever been the same.

We coddled him while he was recovering. Fed him plenty of treats, got him salt licks and toys for his stall and brushed him endlessly. What else were we going to do?

Meanwhile we had to find a new pony for Baby Girl to ride. We leased one for almost a year that just didn’t work out. Then we found Prince. And Prince has turned into a remarkably talented and tolerant guy. Baby Girl loves Prince with her whole heart. Together, they win in the show ring a lot. Together, they explore our property and the property next door bareback. Together they learn what each next step will be. He learned flying lead changes and she is learning how to ask him for them. We started going to Welsh shows, where they excel in the English Pleasure. She is having the time of her life with Prince.

And she no longer looks at Bruno the same way. And my heart breaks.

We tried, we tried to get Bruno back in the show ring. But after a year of coddling his ground manners are awful and he acts as if he was never broke. Most of the time when a person gets on him he starts limping. It’s got to be the added pressure, because he doesn’t limp at any other time. He can’t really jump because his knee doesn’t bend the way it should. He could make a good little western pony. If I had the time and money to go that direction. Maybe he could do dressage. Or pull a cart. He could still have a future.

That is where the anger and frustration come from. My heart was one hundred percent into fixing him, healing him, showing him again. But Baby Girl’s heart is not there anymore. She still loves him, but he is hard. He is a pain in the butt. He basically needs boot camp all over again. And I can’t do it. I am too heavy now to ride him. I don’t have the funds to put him into training somewhere else. I can’t imagine how anyone else would be interested in turning him into what I know he could be. Even if he stopped limping (He doesn’t usually limp with Baby Girl – a small kid – just bigger people).

Our pony finals dream went up in smoke as I shelled out thousands of dollars for Bruno’s surgery and recovery. As I shelled out even more to buy Prince. This is, of course, not something I regret.

What I do regret, is the fact that he no longer has a job or a purpose. It drives me crazy to see this once incredibly promising pony stand in a paddock all day. He’s sweet and he loves attention but he’s also pushy and doesn’t want to be ridden. Baby Girl got on him bareback yesterday and he dumped her off immediately. Twice. In tears she cried that she was done and was putting him away. I think it breaks her heart as well. That this pony she once loved so tremendously no longer wants her to ride him. Or won’t tolerate it, at least.

As a trainer, it’s so frustrating to see him do nothing but get fat. As a mom, it’s heartbreaking that her allegiance has changed. I do understand. Why would she want to ride the hard one when she’s got an easy one that does his job? At some point along the road of recovery she mentally let him go. And I haven’t. And that’s why I’m angry. At myself, at my heart, at my relentless desire to see him perform again in some capacity. At the dream that was crushed on that September morning three years ago.

This is why I haven’t been able to write his story. Because where is the happy ending?

I wish the story wouldn’t end this way. But I’m afraid that it has. He will always have a home with us, and I will always love him. He will be here long after Baby Girl leaves for college. He will still be out there, in his paddock, demanding to be fed. Demanding attention and whinnying at me every time I walk out of the house. I can only hope that someday, I will learn to let go. Of what was, and what could have been and never will be. And that I will accept what was given to me instead – a miracle pony running like crazy on a leg that should never have born weight again.

Bruno deserves that from me. I’m the one who saved him.

I finished writing the book about my parents and sent it off to the publisher. I would say it was a book about my Mom, but it actually turned out to be a love story. Between them. Between me and them. Between Baby Girl and them. It ended up being a story about family, about secrets and love and anger and strength. About the terror and unfairness of losing your parents in the way that I did. About the support my husband and brother gave that held me up when I was about to go under. About figuring out how to manage the intense emotions that sprang up in me and made me feel so very much alone. It wasn’t about sharing my pain with you all – it inadvertently became that. A much needed outlet for all that I felt. I am grateful for the tenderness you all showed me during that endless wave of vulnerability and grief. There are so many of you to thank.

I was lucky, I have a great friend who publishes books and other media all the time and she gave me the name of her publisher, whom I called a year ago and talked to at length about my book and she in turn explained all about getting published. She charges a flat fee and does all the hard work for me… formatting, spine width, layout, editing, cover, and marketing. She walked me through getting accounts with Ingram and Amazon. She told me how to buy an ISBN number. I had to write an author bio and send her a picture of me. I still need to do a dedication. I talk with her each week about the progress the book is making and where in the process it is. It should be done within a month or six weeks.

Exciting news, to be sure. But yet… why do I feel deflated? It took me a year to write that book, to live through the memories and emotions again was particularly tough. For the longest time I couldn’t get past the section where my Dad passed away. I had to stop. Go back. Write a bit more. Stop again. Reading my brother’s obituary of my Dad made my cry all over again. Writing about his last week had me tearing up with my throat closing and feeling very small and alone and inadequate. What if I wasn’t enough for them? Even though I tried so very hard to be everything and anything they needed, I still have doubts.

Writing about the course my Mom’s life took from beginning to end and all the hard times along the way had me screaming silently in anger and pain. She would have hated knowing how it turned out for her. It shouldn’t have ended that way. It should not have been that way.

But it was. And now I’ve done it. It’s going to be “out there” for all the world to read. And that’s a good thing. That’s what I wanted. To share their story, their love and their lives so that it might help someone else going through the same agonizing experience. So that someone out there might feel a little less alone after reading it. A little more justified in their feelings. A little less helpless and weak.

I read that there was a lot of backlash about Bruce Willis’s wife not living in the same house that he does, in order to “better manage his frontotemporal dementia.” I can totally relate. And she said that nobody who hasn’t walked this path gets to judge. She is so right. I would love to send her my book because I truly feel her pain. I would love to read the memoir she wrote. I am so glad that she is speaking out, a person who can truly make something of a difference in this terrible fight. Who would ask for this? Nobody. Who gets to say how any individual family handles it? Nobody except the people in that situation.

I have been ultra quiet lately. Reading a lot. Resting. Thinking. I don’t know if I have another book in me. The writing of that one was so rough and I am depleted. I don’t even feel victorious, even though I probably should. I have been a bit bored. A bit melancholy. Wondering if I deserve all this free time. Wishing for them to be back in my life. Pondering what I should do next.

I am worried. What if I left something important out? Something that I will remember later that was crucial to the story. What if I didn’t depict the anger and pain, the unbearable loss, the grief and the frustration accurately enough? What if nobody can relate to it? What if I did all this for nothing?

The publisher says it’s good. And I should probably believe her.

I really hope that someone out there will read it and think to themselves “wow, these feelings I am having about this situation are authentic and justifiable. I am so glad I read this book.”

That’s all.

And maybe someday I’ll write another book. About a totally different topic. Maybe about all these years I’ve spent teaching riding, maybe about the struggles of raising my Baby Girl, maybe about Bruno – like everyone wants me to. Then again, maybe not. And that’s ok – I accomplished what I set out to do and that is enough.

What’s in a name? Not that much, apparently. Tony and I have traveled on three cruises now, once on Disney – which cannot be matched I’m afraid, once on Royal Caribbean, and now on Norwegian. We had decided to try different cruise lines to find the one we liked best. Next time we might try Princess, or Celebrity.

But next time will be a long time away. Norwegian has the habit of charging you for every tiny little thing. And charging a LOT. I clearly like to learn things the hard way, and this one was definitely hard.

I chose the ship based on the name and the fact that it was going to Bermuda. We wanted to try Norwegian. It sounds exotic. This particular cruise was originally also going to Bar Harbor, Maine, which is somewhere I’ve always wanted to go. After I booked, Bar Harbor decreed “no more cruise ships” so this cruise’s itinerary changed to Bermuda only. And we would spend three days there. I decided this was ok, and proceeded with the travel arrangements.

I did not realize that cruise ships come in different sizes! Knowing that the Viking cruises are smaller and more intimate because some friends told me so, I figured that all the other ocean cruise lines were basically the same. I should have done more research! The Norwegian Jewel is small. To the point where you cannot possibly get lost finding your stateroom (it helped we were near an elevator), and everything is very condensed, and crowded. There was only one shop. It was a large shop, but the Royal Caribbean cruise basically had a mall, which was fun. Disney also had plenty of shopping opportunities. On the Norwegian ship, the middle of the ship was open only on two decks, unlike the three or four of Disney and Royal Caribbean, so not nearly as impressive. It did have plenty of dining and bars, but you had to search in back corners for them. We finally found an outside bar we liked on deck 12 at the back of the ship on the second to last day. We even saw a whale from this deck, randomly.

You literally had to walk through the crowded and smoky casino to get to the theatre. And that was after already walking through a crowded and very noisy martini bar with a piano man. They definitely used every square inch of space! I was more used to everything being more open and easy to find. One of the “specialty” restaurants was tucked onto deck 13 and we had trouble finding it. So while small, the ship’s layout was not very convenient. We were told the ship had been upgraded recently, but honestly it felt a bit old and worn to us.

The ship had plenty of places to eat. A huge buffet called the Garden Cafe or something like that where the girls liked to go on their own for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I am not a fan of the buffets on any ship as they are always extremely crowded. Plus, the food at this buffet was not that good to be honest. I couldn’t get excited about it. The girls loved the never ending pasta and bread and ice cream. I made a point to check out the desserts every day and they tried (and failed) to get to fancy with it. Nothing normal like cookies or plain chocolate cake. No, there were desserts from all over the “world”, which just didn’t taste that good. Lots of things with pralines and coconut, coffee and marzipan and cream cakes and Jello molds of every color. I honestly just wanted a cookie.

There were three restaurants that were “included” with your cruise fare, in which you could eat off a menu. There were no set dining times, unlike Disney or Royal Caribbean. You could go to any of these restaurants at any time you liked. But. The menu was the SAME no matter where you went. AND it was the SAME every day with the exception of a little box with four or five “daily specials.” The desserts changed every day, as well, but again nothing I was interested in eating. Also, if you wanted to try something new like lobster or lamb, you had to pay extra. That is not the case on the other two ships we traveled on. EVERYTHING was included on those. You got to try some really different things. And if you didn’t like it, they would bring you something else. On Disney, we could order a hot dog, or macaroni and cheese for Skylar, regardless of what was on the menu. They would bring her anything she wanted. The service on Disney and Royal Caribbean was impeccable. The service on Norwegian wasn’t. I honestly liked the sit down times with the same server and people around you every day on the other ships. They got to know you. You could banter and joke with them. They asked about your day. The servers on Norwegian were just doing a job. Like at any restaurant.

We had two free “specialty dining” experiences that came with our cruise package. We chose a Brazilian Steakhouse which was the highlight of our dining experience, and an Italian restaurant, where everything was a bit too rich for our blood. The service in these two restaurants was much better and we had a lot of fun in the Brazilian Steakhouse where they bring meat and candied pineapple on skewers and cut it right onto your plate.

Our stateroom was so small. On the Disney cruise we had a room with a view at the very front of the ship so the ceiling curved down at an angle, but actually gave us more floor space. On Royal Caribbean it was just me and Tony, so there was also a small couch and a desk and plenty of room, plus the lovely balcony. On Norwegian the entire room was taken up by the three beds. The normal bed, then pushed up against that and to the opposite wall was the couch bed, which was never put away the entire time – just left out. And the bed that came down from the ceiling could only be opened with a key and was also down 75% of the time, blocking your way to the balcony. We all hit our heads on the underside of that ceiling bed multiple times. There was no room for anything! We had to stuff our large suitcases under the bed and the girls’ suitcases were in the walkway from the door to the balcony. There was literally nowhere else to put them. And the bathroom was so tiny you could barely get dressed in it. Absolutely no counter space. So we were not impressed with the room. The beds were comfortable enough though. And housekeeping was ok, but again, not as good as on the other ships.

I think our standards are a bit high because of Disney being our first cruise, and also because I paid a ton of money for four of us to go on this cruise and I just wanted to be a bit more comfortable than I was. And because the ship was smaller, you could really feel it moving a lot. There were a lot of times I just felt “off” because of motion sickness. Not enough to make me nauseous but moving enough to notice it constantly. Amy said she kind of liked it – it helped her sleep!

The pool deck and hot tubs were nice. I’ve never been in a hot tub on a cruise ship that was truly hot. Warm, yes, but not hot. There must be a temperature level they’re not allowed to go above. The girls, especially Skylar, had fun swimming and laying out. I learned that you do not need to bring beach towels with you on a cruise. Plenty of towels on the boat and also they provided towels when we were going to the beach. So we could have saved some space there and spared ourselves the sand in the room and in the suitcases. The magnetic hooks I had bought before the last cruise were a lifesaver as we could use them to get things out of the way. The water proof phone cases we bought were useless because I was too afraid to trust them not to get our phones wet! The ship felt cold to me so I had to buy a sweatshirt from the one shop, I won’t even tell you what that cost and Skylar wanted a box of 100 colored pencils for $36 which I said no way Jose to. I did wear the sweatshirt every day and will now be able to advertise “Norwegian Cruise Line” loudly for everyone to see.

The ship had some things for the girls to do, besides the buffet and the pool. They were too old for the kids’ club and too young for the teens’ club. And not interested in the basketball or ping pong tables. But there was a small arcade. When we boarded the ship I saw a sign to “sign up for an arcade pass!” so we went to investigate. For $175 (Holy Moly!!!) we could buy a pass and the girls could come play the games with the GREEN square around the card slot. I nearly stopped breathing but I paid it. I thought this would keep them somewhat entertained for the days we were on the ship. There were other games in there, too, where you could win prizes. Those games weren’t included in the green square games.

I should have paid better attention.

I, mistakenly, thought that the girls’ key cards would ONLY work on the green square games. I did not realize that once activated, the cards could ALSO be used on what turned out to be the “pay each time” games. The girls were gone for hours.

That night I received both a written letter and a voice mail asking me to come to guest services to handle the fees accumulated by the arcade. I went. What do you mean, I ask? Well you have over $300 worth of arcade games that will automatically be added to your bill. What?! Including the $175 I already paid? No. No Sir. No Ma’am. I saw the charges… they went on forever. Pages and pages of arcade games played within about a two hour time period at about $2 a pop.

I’m pretty sure I fainted.

I DID get mad. I told them all sorts of angry, frustrated things. They would not budge. I told them we misunderstood, that we thought the cards would work on the green square games only. We thought that only AMY’s card was activated, for both girls to use. It was no use. They did not care. I finally went to the casino and directly negotiated with them to reduce the fees to $356, total. Instead of about $475. But no more arcade games at all for the girls. I felt, and still feel, that it was a total rip-off and that they purposefully did not explain as well as they should have. I also should have paid better attention when the girls came back with armfuls of plastic turtles and stuffed power rangers (or something). Skylar even got a sparkly pink plastic duck. But I was there to relax on the deck with Tony and drink things and I did not, as it happens, think anything of it. Until it was too late. Lesson learned. (PS this was all on the first night).

So the girls did not get to do the arcade anymore.

Another lesson learned was the Diet Coke lesson. The first night on the ship I wanted to get some Diet Cokes delivered to our room so that I could put them in the tiny fridge because I like to have a Diet Coke in the mornings when I wake up. And I didn’t want to have to get dressed and go find one. I was told that they could certainly do this but that there would be a room service charge. I agreed that this was fine. They did not tell me how much the charge would be and I, thinking it would probably be about $20, did not ask. Remember, we are talking about a 12 pack of cans here. $5-$6 at your local Walmart.

SIXTY-ONE dollars later I had my Diet Cokes. In my fridge. Now, I had also brought my pink 32 oz Yeti cup with me and by the third day I had figured out I could take that cup to the bar on the 8th deck and the bartender would fill it up for me. For free, because we had the ultimate drink package. I also learned that I could ask for, and receive, more than one can of Diet Coke at a time, at any of the bars or the buffet.

So what I SHOULD HAVE done was simply to ask for two or more cans of Diet Coke every time I was near a bar and then stockpiled those in my fridge.

Now I know.

At any rate, I would like to say that we did have a good time but were pretty perplexed/frustrated by all the mistakes we made and the cost of things. The evening entertainment in the StarDust Theater (notwithstanding having to walk thru the smoky casino to get there) was all pretty good. We went every night at 7:15 and the girls loved the dancing, singing, and magic shows but were not impressed by the soul singer. He was pretty boring in my opinion. Just not our style of music. After the show we would all hang out on the beds in our room watching a movie or reading or playing games on our phones. We played a lot of UNO.

We sailed. We relaxed. We drank (some). And we learned a lot.

Once we get this one paid off I’ll book another one. I’m committed to cruising. It’s such a safe and easy way of seeing new places. Next time, Honduras! Or New England! Who knows where we’ll go, but we’ll go. Just not on Norwegian.

When she was very young, just like most little bitty girls, Baby Girl was very into pink and purple and turquoise, unicorns and everything magical. When we did her room upgrade from nursery to toddler and then to “big girl” we focused on everything unicorn. If it had a magical horn it was in. Bedspread, comforter, curtains, sheets and pillows – it didn’t stop. Books and stuffed animals never-ending unicorns, etc. She loved to wear dresses, the flowier the better. At two she had a pair of golden sparkly flats she wouldn’t take off, even for sleeping. At four it was a My Little Ponies and mermaids obsession. At five we had a unicorn birthday party.

Along the way from seven to eight years old things started to change. Slowly at first and then like a steamroller. Everything pink and girly was out. No more dresses, no more fairies and narwhals and shiny sparkling shoes. It started with choosing animals like cheetahs to be her favorite. So now everything cheetah pattern was in. No big deal, I thought, lots of little girls lose interest in unicorns. Cheetahs are cool.

Then Grandpa died. And Baby Girl was there. And while it didn’t seem to affect her too much, things started to spiral quietly out of control. All of a sudden she was getting in trouble at school. Refusing to wear anything but comfortable sweatpants and tee shirts and tennis shoes (or her paddock boots), dresses mostly became a thing of the past. They’ll make fun of me, she said. No one likes me, she cried. They’re all mean to me, she lamented.

This was second grade. Things were on a downhill slide. The years from seven to nine were rough. Her Beloved Granny died at age 8, her Poppy at age 9 and her first pony Corkie at age 10. The kid has had a rough few years.

At eight or nine, we changed her room again, now it’s Wolves everywhere and dark shades of blue and gray. At eight she became fascinated with wolves and big dogs. Wolves howling at the moon became a symbol of who she was and how she felt.

Why? Safety. Ferocious, feisty and protective. Unsurprisingly, German Shepherds became her new favorite type of dog. Her favorite colors were still dark blues and grays, with a few other bold colors thrown in. Nothing pink. Nothing too soft or forgiving. Baby Girl’s mood was often dismal at best, but she could also be silly and rambunctious and hard to reason with.

One of her best qualities, however, is her ability to adapt and overcome, her way of letting things go and moving on. Not holding a grudge. And while she would NEVER talk much about her losses, she would sometimes break down late at night, past her bedtime, and cry with me. I usually ended up crying, too, to see her in so much pain.

Kids are resilient they say. I have often thought she is more adaptive than I am. Neither of us had any choice in what happened to us. But she found her way to cope. From wolves and big dogs at eight and nine to horses and regular dogs at age 10, she has finally turned to things like hummingbirds and highland cows at age 11. I am ELATED for the shift. Not that I don’t like wolves, but it highlights her slow morph into someone new. Someone who can be soft again. Someone who can dream and dance and color a new page. Colors and clothes choices symbolize so much of who we are and how we want the world to see us.

We are going on a cruise next week. She has asked for plenty of dresses to wear. She’s starting to care about her hair and make up (!) which I don’t discourage, even though her sweet angel face definitely doesn’t need any make up, and Daddy certainly doesn’t like it. I know it represents a new awareness of herself, and a new confidence that was missing for a long time. She’s stretching the boundaries of who she is, and who she wants to be. Removing her from public school and entering a homeschool co-op made a tremendous difference to her emotional state. She feels safer now, and more accepted.

Her room is still dark navy and gray. But the wolves are gone from the walls. She is choosing to display her favorite horse show ribbons and her new artwork instead. Her new playhouse that was just built is decorated in soft cream and pink. Pink has found a new acceptance in her mind, one that I am fully embracing.

Friday was my birthday and we wanted to get our nails done. What color I ask? Pink she says, with a bow on one finger. I say yes, let’s both do pink.

And so we do.

Tomorrow is my 50th birthday. I remember writing a blog post about feeling 42, eight years ago. Little did I know then, the hard left my life path would take starting just a year later.

I wrote about forgetfulness and how messy my house was with a three year old and a teenager living in it. How completely unconcerned either of them could be with a wreck of a house. How I was forgetting lessons and could not tell you what was on my calendar two days from today. How I was drinking wine like a fish.

Looking back, as we tend to do, I realize those were some days to be grateful for. With the maelstrom of what was to come, those should have been fairly carefree days. And maybe they actually were, but according to my blog posts, they really weren’t. I was already stressed, and worried and worn out. And Alzheimer’s hadn’t even started yet. But here is what I’ve learned, eight years later.

Fifty is choosing to celebrate quietly with just my family that I have learned to appreciate so much but wishing like hell that my parents were still here to celebrate too.

Fifty is losing two pounds and feeling great, then eating a normal meal and gaining it right back. Realizing that you might as well get comfortable in your own skin because it’s probably not going to change much, well, for the better at least. Embracing wrinkles and dry skin and sun spots, trying mightily to use daily moisturizer and sunscreen. Being grateful that I truly don’t have any gray hairs yet, but these chin hairs are quite the shock, and owning three pairs of tweezers just for this purpose.

Fifty is knowing that every minute spent on our vacation in two weeks is going to be absolutely worth all the money and time and worry because once I get on that cruise ship everything will just melt away. I’ll have my girl and her cousin and hopefully they can keep each other entertained while Tony and I chill out and not drink – well I won’t be drinking much at least – this acid reflux problem has got my alcohol sidelined unfortunately.

Fifty is being almost done with my labor of love – my book I wrote about my parents and their story, and our story of Alzheimer’s. Hoping I can get it published and thousands of people might benefit from reading it. A hope I feel so deeply in my heart that it MUST happen, it must. I will certainly make every effort to make this happen. If you’re going to wish me a happy birthday, please also send LUCK and GOOD VIBES that this book actually happens in a way that it will be beneficial to a lot of people who need some comfort and permission to FEEL BAD during their hard times.

Fifty is slowing down. Less being “out there,” and more being “in here.” Learning that naps and relaxing during the day is more than ok, you’ve been stressed to the max and through the ringer and you deserve a break, especially in your own head. Being some bored, like I was as a child riding in a car, is not a bad thing to be. Trying to overlook the messy chaos in your house because you know there are more important things. Doing laundry 24/7 because your child can’t keep socks on her feet nor clothes on her body long enough to make them dirty but once they hit the floor you know you’ve got to wash them. And not getting too worked up about it. (Well, sometimes…)

Being fifty is accepting the Depression that started when I lost my first child and never really went anywhere. Up and down and forward and backwards progress but getting to the point when you just say, hey depression, I’ll allow you to be here but you can’t get too stuck in ok? Just hover in the background and I can make it. And maybe one day Peace will take Depression’s hand and walk it away from me. Maybe.

Being fifty is choosing to embrace all the things, like menopause and pre-teen girls (at the same time, Lord give me strength!), trying not to let anxiety take over, and resting in the arms of my slowed-down world, waiting to see where that next step will lead me. Trusting in God, trusting in me, trusting in us and our child. Accepting my crazy, intense, sensitive, compassionate wild child for who she is right now, and who she will grow into. I can’t wait to find out.

I hope that the fifties are the best years of my life. I’m totally ready for that.

Happy Birthday to me – this is a picture that my Girl painted for me last week. A bit premature but I hung it up anyway so I could reflect on the past fifty years.

I drove by a tennis academy yesterday. I found myself wondering… what if Baby Girl had decided to do a different sport?

We went to a ballet/dance class when she was 3 or 4. She said no. I asked her if she wanted to do gymnastics camp when she was 4 or 5. She said no. We took a handful of karate classes when she was 6. Even bought the cute little pink outfit. She wore it twice. Do you want to do drama? Theatres and plays? Nope. No way. Soccer? You’ve got to be kidding. I hate to ask, but do you want to be a cheerleader? Absolutely not! Well is there anything else you want to try, besides horses? No Mama, I am a rider!

Well, the kid breathed in horses since before she was born so really, it was a fair chance that she would want to ride. And she loved ponies from the get-go, two years old and begging to ride with her tiny helmet on her head and a lead rope in her hand.

I love this sport, don’t get me wrong. But it just hits different when it’s your own kid doing it. I’m the trainer – I don’t make much money. And every show she goes to, everything she is wearing, everything the pony is wearing, is paid for by my training fees. So now I make even less money.

Would I be so heart-in-my-throat watching her compete if she was chasing a fuzzy little yellow ball? Would that racquet have to cost a minimum of $25,000 just for her to be competitive? And I’m not even talking about National, rated shows. But LOCAL shows. Shows in this metroplex. You’ve got to have the pony. And you’ve got to feed it, house it, and keep it cool or warm, depending on the time of year. You’ve got to clean up after it, give it shots and de-wormers, have the farrier and equine dentist come at set times per year. You’ve got to pay for all of that. A gym might require a membership but that’s where your investment in the facility ends. It’s not your problem (unless you own the gym).

And that pony has thoughts and opinions. Plenty of them. If she was up there on the stage would I wonder if it was going to run away with her or buck her off? If she was dancing, would I have to put ear poms in so she’s not affected by the noise? If she was doing karate chops would I fret about the fairness of adults competing against her? If she was kicking soccer balls would I wonder about the advantages of a flying lead change and the fact that our green pony is still learning them? Thus creating a disadvantage for them in the show ring.

I’m sure other sports all have their things that are worrisome, unfair, etc. I don’t know about any of them. But I do know horses, and showing, and how hard it is. You might win a blue ribbon on any given day, you might win nothing at all. You could have the same exact round on both days and winning a ribbon or not would totally depend on how the other people rode, who the judge is, what happened in the ring and the weather. It’s a tough sport. Maybe your pony doesn’t like to ride in the rain. I had one take off with a kid once because it started sprinkling. Another one refused to move because the arena had standing water and he didn’t like the splash on his belly.

And then there’s the exhausted kid at the end of the day. Who still has to take care of her pony. She has to untack it, hose it down, give it water and make sure it’s comfortable in the stall or at the trailer with a bunch of hay to pacify it. That’s hard for a little kid who just wants and needs to be done. Because you CAN’T say “Oh I will do that for you.” If you do it once you’ll do it every time. And what does the kid learn then? All play and no work…. that just isn’t the thing to teach when it comes to horses! The horse can’t take care of itself… unlike the soccer ball it needs attention. So choose your sport wisely.

She’s a born rider. She couldn’t help that. She’s got natural ability and the correct body to be a small pony rider for a very long time if she wants. She’s got grit and determination and she is tough as nails. She fell off the other day for a second time in one day (pony was being a shit) and she stood up and grabbed a handful of dirt to throw at the pony’s retreating backside while she cried angry tears. Then she got back on. She knows enough not to take her frustration out on the pony but she still needs reminding sometimes. Being tough is not a lack of tears. Being tough is getting back on and fixing the problem.

Where was I when I was ten? I was nowhere near her stage of ability. I was still just learning to post and then canter. I couldn’t do a hand gallop, an extended trot or a halt from said hand gallop. I couldn’t jump two feet. A friend at the Welsh show asked how old she is, then said she was still flopping around on the horses’ backs at age 10. She’s certainly not the youngest or most accomplished rider of her age, but she HAS accomplished a lot, especially in terms of personal growth. Where would she be if she wasn’t riding?

So I know there is a lot to be said for this sport. There’s a lot of positives. And negatives. It’s not recognized in public schools which I think is a load of crap. You have to be in high school and do off campus PE for riding to mean anything to the public school system. She won’t be in high school for four more years. Thus the home schooling really works out well for us.

And the ribbons are starting to mean less. She loves to win, don’t get me wrong. But she’s upset if she wins and her friend doesn’t. She’s probably also upset if her friend wins, and she doesn’t. Naturally. She is learning that winning is only amazing if you had a great ride with your pony. She’ll come out of the ring grinning ear to ear and I know she’s proud of herself. Winning the Medal round at the one show where she had terrible rounds, minus that one, was a terrific lesson in perseverance. And that hard work pays off. And that the pony won’t always cooperate, and you still have to ride what you have.

She’s learned and grown so much in the last year alone, and I’m exceedingly proud of who she’s becoming.

But still I wonder… a tennis ball doesn’t have an attitude…

I have lost my Mother’s diamond earrings. That my Dad gave her for an anniversary – I can’t remember which one. Mom was delighted when he gave them to her. Really pleased. She put them in and never took them out again. Until she had to. Well, I had to.

I put them in my own ears one day years ago when Mom had to take them out for some type of testing when we were at the hospital. I told myself it was only temporary. But Mom forgot about them and I just left them in. I told myself it was safer that way. I still remember Mom very upset that my Granny’s wedding rings were stolen in the nursing home she was in. (It wasn’t a great nursing facility, clearly). Dad knew I was wearing them and he was happy that they were being well taken care of. He knew that Mom did not need to have diamond earrings in anymore, as they would most likely end up lost. I wore them for years.

And now I’ve lost them. I took them out in January so I could wear other earrings to the NTHJC banquet. They were in my bedroom. I am certain I put them somewhere safe, on purpose. But now they are completely missing. And I’m devastated.

I can’t stop thinking about it. They’re only earrings I tell myself – not something to get so worked up about – even if they were diamonds. But what I can’t stand is … what happened to them? Did they fall down somewhere? Get sucked up by the vacuum? Eaten by the dog? Where on earth did they go? I may yet find them, I know, and I hold out hope that I do. But in the meantime I am deeply upset.

Where do those things go that were deeply loved and are now lost?

Baby Girl and I read a book over Christmas, aptly titled The Christmas Pig. It was about a place that lost things go to. And a very loved little stuffed pig and the little boy that was looking for him. I don’t know about Baby Girl, but it made an impact on me. The book is by J. K. Rowling for any of you anxious to check it out. A place called The Land of the Lost, a monster that eats lost things, a train and three doors. Cities in the Land of the Lost, special things that are wanting to be Found, and things irretrievably gone… it was a really good story actually. Lessons learned that new things can become loved just as much as old things. And that the old things will live on forever in our memories and hearts.

Since I couldn’t find Mom’s, I put the earrings back in that Tony got me for our first anniversary. Diamonds as well, but not quite as big as the ones Dad got for Mom after something like 45 years. Understandable. I hadn’t worn them in years, as I was wearing Mom’s instead. But I knew where they were. And I know my Dad would be really upset that I’ve lost his. His disappointed face haunts me. How could I misplace them? He was never one to place blame, as he couldn’t see what the point of blame was. But I know he would be unhappy that they are gone. I’m unhappy, so I know he would be, too. I am secretly glad he’s not here for me to have to admit to him what has happened. What I’ve done.

It’s maddening. Where do the lost things go? I am not a person who loses things. I am a neat, reliable, organized human. I keep lists and everything has its place. I don’t like chaos or mess – please don’t judge me for the state of my house as I wait for my storage building to be finished! It drives me crazy, not being able to put stuff away. My Christmas tree is still in the living room. Unadorned, yes, but standing tall just the same. Surrounded by boxes of ornaments and decorations, I have been waiting MONTHS for this storage building to be complete. I could have put all the stuff in the attic but then I’d just have to get it all out again. A waste of time and effort. So there it sits to this day.

I clean my bedroom and dust it. I change the bed sheets and I vacuum. I dust the picture frames. And I look for the earrings.

Damn it.

Many of you have been following along with my struggle with depression. I have started a new treatment – have you heard of ketamine?

It’s called Spravato, and you treat yourself by spraying ketamine up your nostrils, in a clinical and controlled setting. I was extremely skeptical and fearful at first. While I am not usually afraid of things, being skeptical is second nature to me. Why would this work when nothing else has? I have been labeled as a “treatment resistant” depressive person. I have tried at least nine antidepressants since about 2012. None of them made a tremendous difference. Some of them made me feel just drugged, sluggish and slow and not able to function, nor to feel any emotion at all. I went years without crying. I couldn’t. Even if I felt the situation required it, or that it would help. Tears wouldn’t come. I hated that feeling.

Others have worked … some. They have pulled me back to the brink of functioning and having a little pleasure in life. They have made me stop just staring out the window at the world wishing I could be a part of it. They have gotten me to be able to contemplate happiness even if I could never quite reach that full potential. So when my doctor talked to me about Spravato, I told him some days I was “above” the functioning line, and some days “below” it. I could never seem to float high above that line, or even stay above it for more than a day or two. It’s been a constant rollercoaster and I am exhausted from it. He said it would help. I said “we’ll see.”

There are so many aspects to depression. Tiredness is just one small tip of the iceberg. Crying, feeling low, functioning at a very low level, compensating, finding no pleasure in things you used to love, sleeping too much, insomnia, eating too much, not eating enough, easily irritated, etc…. depression is all consuming. It affects every moment of your life. So I was willing to give this ketamine a try. It is an anesthetic, basically. But it opens up and creates new pathways in your brain. Things that have been shut down for a long time will start to fire up. Many people feel relief with just one treatment. Many people stop feeling suicidal. (I was never suicidal). People have cried happy tears. I read all the material, and all the stuff I could find on google. I went to the Spravato website and soaked in the information there.

I agreed. Let’s do it. I was pumped. And I was terrified because I had no idea what to expect. What happens is this: you go to the clinic, the doctor hands you the medicine box and you have to confirm that yes, this is your medicine (with your name on the box). It is an extremely controlled medication. Then you open the box yourself and take out the nasal spray. You spray once in each nostril, wait five minutes, then do it twice more to get the full dose. I have had six of these treatments so far and finally, finally, I am starting to see results. The clouds have parted.

Then you are stuck at the clinic for at least two hours while they observe you. The medication is a trip. I imagine it’s like being high. The effects aren’t the same for everyone but this is what happens to me…. I enter a surreal state with my entire body going slightly numb – like your gums when you are at the dentist – it’s a feeling like that. I have my headphones on and have the music going. There are even playlists for “Spravato” music. I tried that once, but then decided I preferred to choose my own tunes. It is a very hard experience to describe but here’s my version. I go numb all over and it feels like a weight is pressing my body into my chair. But my mind is going crazy with neurons firing everywhere – so fast I can’t keep up. If I move my head a centimeter I swear it will fall off. The music is dancing! I can see it, I am the music – it’s so intense that I swear I am the music myself. The words are my words – they are in my soul. They become me. I have to remember to take breaths because I can’t tell if I am breathing or not. And then… it wears off and the music is just flat again, the room is no longer spinning and I can move my body again.

You get woozy. You couldn’t possibly walk in this state. You really can’t even see. They call it disassociation. I call it high as a kite. My husband has to drop me off at the clinic then pick me up two hours later – so fun for him. The overall feeling lasts thirty to forty minutes for me. I will tell you what – I resisted like hell the first few treatments. I hated the way it made me feel, I hated the burning sensation in my throat, the taste, the nausea, the wildness, the out of control. I hated everything about it. At first you go twice a week, for four weeks. I have one more week of this, then it will drop to once a week, then hopefully every other week. It’s a commitment for sure.

I have been listening to P!NK for several sessions now. She’s extremely relatable and human. She makes me feel (during the sessions) as if it’s my voice coming from her. It’s a crazy feeling – you can understand all the words because you are them. I know it doesn’t make sense but there you have it. I dipped into Miley Cyrus one time because Baby Girl was listening to her stuff but I couldn’t get into that. She’s got a couple great songs, but she’s not for me, really. If you haven’t heard it, P!NK’s song Turbulence sounds like to me, a cry for help from someone who is depressed. It makes perfect sense. My life has been one long bout of turbulence for about thirteen years… starting after my miscarriage. I remember Tony imploring me, “please please don’t get depressed, I don’t think I could handle it, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

Y’all. He has been a rock. He may not have the right words all the time, or in fact, any words at all. But he listens. He listens to all my fear, anxiety, anger, irritations, crap that comes out of my mouth. He absolutely knows how I’ve hated feeling this way. That song, Turbulence, defines him perfectly. He is my permanent.

The first few weeks of this treatment had me angry and irritated with everything and everyone. I have years of repressed emotions that I need to deal with. Years of my brain shutting down and putting by the wayside to deal with later. By treatment number five I was wondering if it would ever work, if it was yet another path that led nowhere.

Now is later. Now is the time. I am still going through some turbulence but I can see past it. I am hopeful and encouraged. I have woken up these past few days ready to get up and work. And THAT is a beautiful feeling.

(Picture of me and my first pony Abby, just because I felt like sharing it – I was terrified of this very solid, very tall jump. She got me over it easily. Just a little symbolism here).