My oldest child is 14. No longer the little girl who needed and wanted me so much, now she’s a teenager jockeying for her independence. She’s an incredible human, but at times it feels difficult to connect with her, to reel her back in when she’s pushing me away. Thankfully, our mutual love for horses—a passion we’ve shared since she was a toddler—remains unchanged. Just like the umbilical cord that tethered her to me when she was nestled in my belly, the horses pull her back to me now, just when I think she’s floating away.

I get nostalgic about all her horsey firsts: Her first lesson on a scruffy chestnut pony named Redfeather. The first time we hacked side by side, a dream of mine come to fruition. Her first leadline class, clutching the pommel to keep from teetering. Her first deluge of tears upon falling off and overcoming the fear that followed. 

I was beside her, watching every lesson as she navigated bright orange cones. I lugged her saddle over to her pony when she was too tiny to carry it herself. I painstakingly braided her fine hair and fastened show bows. I recall her begging to accompany me every time I rode, “Please, Mommy. Take me with you to the barn today.” She needed me, both physically and emotionally. 

I once wished for privacy when she invaded my bed at night clutching “Ponyella,” her favorite book about a Cinderella show pony. Now I long for her to hang with me; instead, she’s content alone in her room watching Vampire Diaries and FaceTiming with barn friends. Now that my daughter’s at the crossroads of childhood and adulthood, she doesn’t need me as much. I know she’s just taking the space to figure out who she is. Still, the rejection makes my heart throb. 

Because she’s my first teen, there’s so much I’m unsure how to navigate. I struggle to deal with her storming off in a huff every time she’s told to put away her phone: “But MOM!!! I’m texting about my lesson.” I feel ancient and irrelevant when I don’t get her jokes or her slang. I can’t figure out how to use “rizzing” or “slay, queen” correctly. 

But I do know how to speak horse, and that is our common ground.

I know when to remind her that her saddle is too far back, when her canter stride is too long, and when she didn’t scrub her horse’s socks hard enough. I also know to give her props when she nails the bounce jumps, conquers the evil roll top, or elicits a compliment from her trainer. 

This spring, we watched the Devon Grand Prix (Pennsylvania) together. We grabbed each other and “oohed” and “aahed” concurrently. We didn’t even have to speak to understand one other. In the stands that night, cheering wildly, I recognized I’m a lucky mama to have a horsey daughter. 

My girl still wants me around when it comes to her riding. She knows I’m her biggest supporter at shows, clinics, and in lessons (when I can escape my gaggle of younger children). She asks me to watch her lessons, and when I can’t she finds ways to engage me: “Watch this video of my course. Did you see how well she jumped the green jump?” When the barn manager sent me videos of her lesson during horse camp this summer, with a heart-adorned text, “She asked me to send this to you,” I felt warmth course through me: My daughter was thinking of me during her fun-filled, horse-filled day.

Unlike other aspects of my teen’s life where she’s shut me out temporarily, she still wants my horse-related thoughts and opinions. Though I get grunts or one-word responses when I ask how school was (fine, OK, bad), when I ask about her lesson I get, “Oh, we practiced courses today. I’m working on keeping her balanced in the corners. Sometimes she falls in,” and it sparks a conversation we can both enjoy. 

She knows I get it, because I’ve been there. I’ve experienced the precariousness of horse life and have the mileage to help her ride out the dips and peaks. I’m not full of nonsense, which goes a longggg way with a teen.

She also knows she’s a lucky daughter. We’re on the same page because her mom’s an equestrian who’s on her side. When the opportunity recently arose to attend an Amanda Steege clinic, I got it. My daughter and I were as giddy when we confirmed her spot as we would have been if we’d scored Taylor Swift tickets. Though my daughter was excited and nervous to ride with such an accomplished pro, I told her I wouldn’t miss it. She gushed, “Thank you, Mom. You make me less nervous.” I know my horse girl still wants me around, not just to buy her Drunken Elephant serums at Sephora or a Refresher at Starbucks. This makes me happy.

Here’s the thing: I’m learning that as my daughter matures, the nature of our relationship is more reciprocal. Just like she needs me in different ways than as a child, I’ve come to need her. 

On one stifling weekend this summer, I was a grumpy lump of zero motivation, happy to putter around the house in the AC. My daughter barged into my bedroom that Saturday night, “Mom, come ride tomorrow. I would love to ride with you. You rarely get to ride.” Though my initial instinct was to bemoan the heat, I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to spend time with her. I slathered on sunscreen and joined her for a peaceful hack at a friend’s farm. Though I was sweating like a hog afterward, fireworks pinged inside me. I was fulfilled to be beside my daughter doing the thing we both love. No longer am I just the one rooting for her, she’s rooting for me.

That same humid morning, we refueled with Starbucks then went to see my daughter’s mare. I watched as she had a quiet hack around the outdoor. “Come on, Mom! Get on after me. You got this!” She encouraged. Yet again, I relented though I was jelly-legged-sore. I only rode her horse briefly, but I was radiant (not just from sweat). This sweltering day in our shared happy place reminded me that I hadn’t lost my daughter. 

My daughter has also been integral in giving me a little push when I need it the process of breaking our 3-year-old pony. She was the one to encourage me to accomplish the pony’s firsts: First time off the longe line, first trot and first canter. (I would have walked on the longe line for a decade if she hadn’t encouraged me to take the next step.) Knowing that she believes in me helps me believe in myself. 

Sure, I wish I could stop time and recapture those days when she looked like a little pony riding angel, white-blond ringlets busting out of her helmet. But I can’t. So, I’m incredibly grateful we can do this together. Though it still makes me ache that much of her childhood is behind us, I’m also excited for our future together—a future full of horses. 

Just like I’ve never let my horse passion melt away, I’d be shocked if boys or jobs forever took the place of this for her. Even if she takes a break once she’s swallowed by the abyss of adulthood, she’ll come back to the horses like I did.

I’ve given my daughter the gift of growing up as a horse girl, something that she can hold tight to in life when times get hard. Horses are in our blood, in our hearts. 

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 3 to 14. She and her family reside at Wish List Farm, where her horse crazy girls play with their small pony, Cupcake, and her son and husband play with the tractor.