My Dear Firstborn,

When I first held you in my arms, bundled in the hospital blanket, my first clear thought amidst the whirlwind of hormones was: How could you be so perfect? My second thought was: I can’t wait to ride with you one day. In that moment, I lost myself in dreams—dreams of us galloping through golden fields together. I envisioned sharing this passion with you as you grew from a little peanut into a young lady. Horses had shaped my life so profoundly, and I longed to share that with a child of my own. And then, I had you.

So, I introduced you to horses early. I sat you on horses before you could walk. We still laugh at that picture that hung on the fridge for years—there you are riding with me, propped in front of the saddle, my hand wrapped tightly around your tiny waist.

As soon as you could walk, I immersed you in barn life. Then I put you in lessons on a saintly old pony named Redfeather. You were only 3 at the time. So little. Too soon, in hindsight. At first, you seemed to enjoy riding, but it also scared you. You preferred plucking flowers, feeding geese stale bread, and circle time at the library. I wanted you to love horses, but in retrospect, that wasn’t fair. That wasn’t about you. That was about fulfilling my own dream.

As you started kindergarten, I still didn’t get it. Instead, I tried harder. I put you in horse camps and lessons, encouraging you along a path you weren’t sure you wanted to follow. You enjoyed playing Simon Says and smearing ponies with finger paint, but the riding? Not your favorite. I desperately wanted you to fall in love with horses the way I had. But you weren’t ready. I wasn’t helping. I was hurting. 

The memories of my mistakes still haunt me. I remember the first time you finally tackled your fear of “going fast” and cantered on your own. It was just the two of us in the indoor that day, a special moment. I was thrilled—you were one step closer to riding alongside me. I let my wild enthusiasm loose and clapped. The sound ricocheted off the ring walls, and the pony bolted forward. You fell. You cried. I tried to wipe your tears, smudging dirt across your cheeks, and you said, “I don’t want to ride anymore.” 

That was one of many wake-up calls. I’d pushed too hard. I wasn’t allowing you to be you. The you who is beautiful with or without horses. Yet I hadn’t quite learned how to stop myself.

There were other moments I regret too. The time I put you on my green pony, Secretive, thinking he was the perfect fit. You hesitated because he was young. “He’s so quiet. You’ll be fine on the longe line,” I assured you. But then a storm snuck in, rain suddenly shooting onto the metal roof. Secretive spooked at the clamor, and you flew off. I was sure you’d quit for good. And it was my fault. I didn’t let you make your own choices. I was trying to force you into a dream that wasn’t yours. Too fast. Like squeezing you into an ill-fitting dress.

There were also the horse shows. When you were still chubby with baby fat, we stuck you in leadline classes. And you giggled and smiled. It all felt so innocent. But when I encouraged you to try the mini-stirrup division, you said you weren’t ready. You were nervous and needed time. Instead of hearing you, I overlooked your emotions, your fragile confidence. You did the show for me. You struggled in the ring. Defeated. Done yet again.

After that show, I recall scooping up what little was left of your confidence. And I finally realized: I had to let go. All these years, I had been chasing my vision of you with horses—not yours. My dream of horses being a lifelong passion for you, a source of strength and stability, was mine alone. The dream of hacking around the ring together. Mine.

So I took a step back. I focused on my passion, my riding, and let you explore others. You found joy in theater and dance, Girl Scouts, and playdates. And when I least expected it, you came back to me: “Can I start riding?” This time, I promised to follow your lead.

And when I backed off, something beautiful happened. You bloomed. From walking and trotting to cantering, to jumping, to horse shows. You navigated your nerves and the challenges at a pace that felt right to you. Without my constant interference, I gave you space to do your own work, rebuilding your confidence. 

And that confidence and strength carried you through the next few years. Your first pony tested you, but you loved him and worked through it. The horse you leased for a year? I never imagined you could learn to ride her so well. But you earned her respect, worked through the highs and lows, and became stronger in the process. And the struggles of being horseless at times, you managed that disappointment with grace and maturity too. Always working, always growing.

Perhaps what I admire most about you is that despite me, you’ve stayed true to yourself throughout this journey. And thankfully, you don’t work hard at it anymore to please me. You work hard because it feels right in your heart.

And now, I owe you an apology. You are my firstborn, and I made so many mistakes, fumbling through parenthood as a newbie. I am so sorry I saw you as a vessel for my own dreams. But I am also so grateful that those tough moments, my mishaps, shaped you. They taught you resilience. You learned that you can do hard things—on your own terms. Not mine.

So few people understand the connection I have with horses. But I have you now. The one who shares this crazy, wonderful love with me. 

One day when I’m gone, every time you see or touch a horse, I hope you’ll think of me. Of us. Of this horse journey we’ve shared. Of the love that will always, always be there.

Love you so much, 

Mom

Jamie Sindell has an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and has ridden and owned hunters on and off throughout her life. She is a mom of five kids, ages 4 to 15. She and her family reside at Wish List Farm, where her horse-crazy girls play with their pony and her son and husband play with the tractor.