When I went to college, I stopped a few hobbies I had started in my youth, i.e. sleeping and pleasure reading. Once the diploma was in my hot little hand, I was more than happy to pick up sleeping and reading again.

There was one hobby, however, that I didn’t pick up so easily. Surprisingly enough, it was the hobby that helped change my life when I was 14.

At that age, my parents and doctors urged me to try my hand at horses as therapy for leg and back operations I had in my younger years. I remember the day vividly when my mom pulled up to the driveway of the farm, Giant’s Bench it was called. I was feeling groggy and depressed, common feelings in my teen years, mixed with the ever stereotypical angst and anger.

That all changed, however, as soon as I caught site of my first mount. She was a stable nag, used for years as a school horse. She was well taken care of, though not the most beautiful animal ever created, and I loved her instantly. I loved the way she stood as I brushed her, learned how to tack her up. I loved the way she didn’t judge me based on what I looked like or said, only on how well I treated her. Though all girls, at least most whom I’ve met, love horses, they grow out of it as time goes on. My love and addiction only grew.

Upon reaching college, I found that there was no real way for me to ride. I didn’t have a car to get to the farms, the buses didn’t run where I needed them to go and I didn’t have the time to commit to the equestrian club on campus.

I suffered quietly. It helped that my roommate that first year was also crazy about horses. I tried my hand at other activities, like lacrosse, but I couldn’t really participate as running is physically beyond my capabilities.

Three years passed, and I found myself back home, with a journalism degree and a job at the paper I interned at in high school. I felt like I picked up right where I left off in my little hometown.

The only thing left to do was to find a place to ride. I had been gone so long, I was afraid I either wouldn’t like it, or had forgotten everything. I can no longer ride English style, it hurts my back and legs too much, an early sign of what my doctors warned me about: arthritis in various places by the time I’m 30. I was nervous this meant that I wouldn’t be able to ride ever again. But every time I thought about it, I remembered that first ride, remembered the amazing feeling of freedom and teamwork and acceptance. I decided not to let pain get in my way. When had I ever let anything get between me and horses? Never.

I found a barn, Painted Valley Farm, that teaches Western style, and dove right in. I had my first lesson in two years July 5, and it felt like it had only been a day since I was last on a horse. The same feeling of acceptance was there from my mount, a sweet-tempered horse named Toby. The same feelings of “If you take care of me, I’ll take care of you” that I love so much. A few days later, however, I’m realizing that it wasn’t just yesterday, as I can hardly stand without a groan of stiff muscles, and crossing my legs is an impossible goal.

All I can say is I look forward to my next lesson, as that’s the only way to beat my muscles back into an understanding that at least once a week, they are getting a workout.

There’s a lot that’s changed about me and my life in eight years. Horses, however, have remained a constant obsession.

As a past trainer once said, “Horses are a drug. We would quit if we could. We just can’t.”