The Space Between Strides
Dust lingers in the air, swirling in the wake of movement, weightless and untethered—just like her. She rides as if she was born in the saddle, her body folding into the rhythm of hoofbeats, her breath matching the steady rise and fall of the animal beneath her. There’s no force, no struggle. Only trust.
The world narrows to this moment. Wind in her hair, boots in the stirrups, fingers grazing the reins like an old melody she knows by heart. The horse moves, and she moves with it—a silent conversation, a language spoken in weight shifts and whispers.
She laughs, head tipped back to the sky, the sun painting her skin in gold. It’s the kind of freedom that can’t be borrowed, only lived. She isn’t just a trainer; she’s a translator of movement, a keeper of unspoken stories, a bridge between wildness and willing surrender.
Later, the barn hums with quiet. Light filters through wooden beams, dust dancing in the stillness. She sits on a worn stool, one boot hooked on the rung, her flannel loose over tired shoulders. Outside, the horse lingers, ears flicking in her direction. Even in silence, the bond remains.
This is more than riding. More than training. It’s trust, freedom, and the space between strides—the space where the earth meets the sky, and for a moment, they are one.
