By Elyse Hart
When I first laid eyes on Bob almost six years ago, I could never have imagined what our story would encompass, not in my wildest dreams (which seemed to hit me instantly when we met). That both inspires and terrifies me at the same time.
Bob was the beginning of a whole new world for me. As an amateur returning to the sport after a 17-year hiatus due to drug and alcohol addiction, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, and ignorance in the form of my black beauty was absolute bliss.
To briefly summarize for those of you who have not been following our journey, within the first two years together, we almost lost Bob, and then almost lost me in two separate near-fatal accidents that had nothing to do with one another.
Bob was cast badly in his stall. I was told I was lucky we were able to plan for rehabilitation instead of euthanasia. When he was finally able to stand in the trailer and make it to the hospital, the phone call I received following his bone scan told me it was one of the worst scans they had ever seen. I was told he would never be sound, that he would lose range of motion in his left hind, and that he would have complete muscle necrosis of the left side of his body.
About a month later, I was kicked in the stomach by a horse, suffering injuries that required emergency surgery and my own very rough recovery.
I bring these things up because it is important to remember the contrast. It is what makes some of the progress we have worked so hard for feel both so sweet and so sour.
At what felt like ground zero, my dreams were dashed, and I was grasping at straws to keep any form of partnership with Bob, even in the form of an expensive lawn ornament. As you can imagine, it took a tremendous amount of work to get both Bob and me back into gear, mentally and physically, and truthfully, it was not something I held much hope in at the time. Not because I did not want it badly enough, but because this path demanded so much more of us than simply learning movements or earning scores.
I am endlessly grateful we found a trainer and mentor in Kim Kulesa, who was more than up for the challenge. Every part of our story that I get to continue to write has had her hands and heart on it, and we owe it all to her.
We took our time rehabbing both of us, and by some miracle that I still cannot fully comprehend, I get to sit here and tell you that we just earned our USDF Silver Medal.
And I write this to say that this wildly non-linear journey with horses continues to crack open both my mind and my heart, because we truly never know what is possible. As Kim says – and I truly believe – Bob and I have defied all the odds, and the lessons learned in this rich experience are the true reward.
One thing about Bob: he has taught me how to live in the moment.
You could ask more than a handful of people if they have had an elevated heart rate watching us ringside, whether in a lesson or at a horse show. Bob can be a very reactive horse. I like to joke that he simply does not want me to be bored.
The odds felt quite stacked against us “succeeding” in the show ring, and honestly, anywhere else. We experienced many renditions of what success and goals even looked like, and each time I was presented with a new humbling lesson, I could either recoil and overanalyze, or choose to accept with an open heart, no matter what was to come. I eventually learned to choose the latter, and I’m so glad I did. What a journey it’s been.
What I came to understand through Kim’s translation was that Bob was actually a deeply misunderstood horse. A horse who wanted to try, but who had so much happening in his mind at once that he would become overwhelmed very easily. Once that happened, you may as well have been riding a horse on an entirely different planet.
I am so grateful that Kim took the time (and then some) with patience and unconditional understanding to teach us how to be with one another; how to “interpret the data”; how to set boundaries; how to listen and lead… and above all else, how to find balance. She taught us not to be so surprised by the challenges and changes that are a promised part of the process of growth.
My gratitude for the milestones we have achieved knows no bounds, but the truly sweet thing to me is this: almost six years into our partnership, I finally feel like Bob is beginning to truly let me ride him and guide him for the very first time. The trust and the connection earned from him are the biggest gifts of all.
This sport has asked me to become softer and stronger, simultaneously; to learn patience when I wanted immediacy; to become a leader instead of a passenger; to stop trying to force understanding, and instead earn it through consistency, humility, and listening.
Horses have always carried me back to myself, even when I was lost enough to forget who I was entirely. The gift of sobriety allowed me to return to the barn, but this journey with Bob has taught me how to stay present once I got there.
And perhaps that is why this accomplishment feels so emotional to me. When we picked up our score sheet from the show office, and were met with teary-eyed congratulations from the very same people whose heart rates we have elevated over the years, the people who truly knew our story… that felt the sweetest of all.
After several years of trying to earn our Silver Medal scores – which I was immensely grateful to even have the “underdog” opportunity to attempt – there was something incredibly emotional about sharing that moment with people who understood just how much had to happen for us to even arrive here.
I think sometimes in our sport, we become so fixated on the next score, the next level, the next accomplishment, that we forget to sit inside the meaning of what we have already gotten to experience. But lately, I have been trying to let myself feel it more fully. The gratitude. The improbability of it all. The many people who helped carry me here.
I used to think accomplishments in this sport would feel like arriving somewhere. But more and more, I think the beauty is actually in the becoming.
Earning my Silver Medal does not feel like the end of something to me. It feels more like a marker placed gently along the ride, proof that healing, growth, and impossible things can coexist if you stay willing to keep walking forward. And for that, I am endlessly grateful.
Read more on Elyse and Bob’s journey in A Tale of Tails: Part One, A Tale of Tails: Part Two, Riding and Recovery, and Full Circle on Centerline.
