Giddy Up, Grace, and God Help My Hips

So, yesterday… I went horseback riding.

Now before you picture a majestic, wind-blown moment of me galloping across a meadow like some denim-clad cowgirl goddess—let me stop you right there. That wasn’t yesterday’s vibe. At all.

It all started with my dear friend Monika. That’s Monika with a K, which is also short for Kickass Wrangler of Horses and Keeper of Sanity. She backed Geoffrey’s truck up to the gooseneck horse trailer like she was parallel parking a cruise ship—calm, steady, and completely unfazed. Then she trotted off to catch the horses with the same energy I use to find snacks in a gas station. Within minutes, Grace and Mocha were loaded, brushed, and looking more trail-ready than either of us.

Now, let’s talk about me getting on the horse.

It has been thirty years since I’ve ridden one. Not counting the occasional tourist trap “beach horse moment” where you’re plopped on a weary pony for a photo and asked to look majestic. I grew up around horses in Australia. My dad was a jockey. Horses were practically my siblings. I should’ve been a natural.

Spoiler: I was not.

Apparently, walking across America and mounting a horse require completely different muscles—none of which I’ve been using. Monika tried to give me a leg up, but instead we ended up in a slow-motion comedy sketch where I had to pick which ankle I was willing to sacrifice in the name of adventure. Eventually, I just sort of… launched myself over Grace’s back like a sack of potatoes trying to stick the landing.

I wasn’t wearing riding boots—just my trusty hiking boots, which are about as graceful in stirrups as flippers. I did my best to find that equestrian posture: shoulders back, hips under, chin tucked, core engaged—but by the time I remembered the third thing, I had already forgotten the first. Within five minutes I was sweating, sore, and reevaluating my entire relationship with gravity.

Grace, thankfully, lived up to her name. She was calm, sweet, and very forgiving of my lack of coordination. She trotted a few times just to keep things interesting, and at one point she flirted with the idea of a full meadow sprint—but I managed to talk her down with promises of carrots and emotional stability.

Then came the snake.

Just slithering across the trail like it had RSVP’d. Mocha and Grace gave it a casual nod like, “You cool? We cool,” and kept walking. Meanwhile, I mentally prepared for a full-blown equine meltdown that never came. Thank God Grace was more emotionally regulated than I was.

And then there was Monika—twisting and contorting herself on her own horse in an attempt to get a photo of me. At one point she was fully leaned back over her saddle like a yoga instructor mid-possessed crab walk, giggling and belly-laughing the entire time. That laugh of hers? It’s one of my favorite sounds on earth. Loud, joyful, unfiltered—it fills a space like sunshine and makes everything feel a little more alive.

It was a perfect Saturday.

And as I sit here now, marinating in an Epsom salt stew with muscles I didn’t know existed screaming in unison, I’m filled with nothing but gratitude. Grateful for a friend who shows up with horses and humor. Grateful for this peaceful little Georgia town and the stillness it offers. Grateful that this mental fitness journey of mine has room for detours and delight and rest.

Grace reminded me to stay steady, breathe deep, and always trust the horse over the hiker when it comes to handling unexpected wildlife.

Besides, any day that includes a snake sighting, a near-saddle-straddle incident, and a full-body Monika backbend is a day well lived in my book.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be rotating between an Epsom salt bath, a heating pad, an ice pack, and whispering “You did good, hips… you did good,” while questioning every decision that led to mounting a horse in hiking boots.