And then the moment arrived—the first time I truly thought: *I’m going to sit on this horse*. It was a thought I never believed would come. I remember once saying, “If by June he still doesn’t allow me on his back, I’ll stop trying. I’ll keep working with him, but I’ll let go of the idea of riding him.”
It was around April when the day finally came. I positioned him by the mounting block, went up, and I could feel the calmness in him, the willingness. Inside, something felt different—there was no tension in the air, no sense of walking on a razor’s edge like before. Instead, I felt grounded and stable. I leaned toward his back, crossing my arm over his withers, and put some of my weight on him. He stood still, waiting. I stepped down, my heart full of joy, and he looked at me with such sweet, serene eyes, confirming everything I felt.
From that moment, the process began—jumping up and down beside him, touching him from above, hugging him with my body and legs, moving him around from a higher position. I needed to see how much he trusted me in that situation. As usual, he progressed like a wave—some days easier than others—but each time there was progress. I added the saddle, leaning my belly on it, jumping on it. I decided to practice with the stirrup inside the stable, as it felt safer in case he took off unexpectedly. Every day, I worked on this, focusing on his relaxation, especially when I lifted myself up.
And then, one day, after jumping up and down and playing with the stirrup, I knew it was time to take the next step. He was ready, and so was I. My excitement was palpable. I felt like a child, dancing through my day with anticipation. When I talked to Nic on the phone, he begged me to wait until he could be there for that first ride. It was during COVID, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d have to wait, but Nic was insistent, and I didn’t want to ignore his request. Finally, Nic was able to travel from Italy to be with me for two weeks.
I wasn’t sure how Percha would respond with Nic there. He knew him, but the bond with me was something different. I asked Nic to respect the way I had been preparing and communicating with Percha, to give me time for the subtle cues I relied on. Nic was gentle and soft, supporting the space between us. He helped me mount without the step, leaning on Percha’s back and walking the first steps. Percha was tense at first—it was a new situation, and Nic’s presence was new to him—but even then, he stayed with me, waiting for my cues.
We walked a few steps, paused, then walked a few more. The whole time, I could feel him checking in on me. I have a video of that moment—his expression was beyond words. I was so proud of him, and the love and trust he showed me was the greatest gift I’ve ever received.
In the following days, we added the saddle. He was even more relaxed, walking fluidly with Nic leading, while waiting for my cues. I could feel his joy and pride, and when I hugged him before dismounting, tears streamed down my face. It had been my dream to reach this moment, without crisis or panic, just a relaxed and happy horse—and it had happened.
After Nic left, I kept practicing on my own. Percha was always ready, calm, and relaxed. But as I rode alone, I felt more emotional. I asked Romi for help to feel safer, and together we’d walk around the arena, with Percha doing great. When alone, I would get on and off several times, often filled with doubts if I should do it all by myself. One day, Percha did something unexpected—he leaned toward me and lowered his side, as if telling me, “I’m ready, go ahead. You can do it, we can do it!” It was a moment of pure trust, and I mounted again alone, hugging my horse from above. This is something Percha will keep using along our journey, every time he wants to remind me that together we simply can.
Then life took a turn. After summer, everything changed. Nic moved to the Netherlands, which was exciting but somehow stressful. Unfortunately, in this life changing moment for both of us, tensions grew up, and one day, just before I was about to ride, Percha sensed the stress between me and Nic and bolted. Nic nearly lost control of him, and I had to jump down. It was a wake-up call. Nic’s words haunted me: “I don’t want to see you killed by this horse.” I had never thought of Percha as dangerous, but those words shook me deeply.
This marked the start of a difficult period. My confidence was shattered, and daily life became more stressful. I was exhausted, anxious, and plagued by daily headaches. Preparing Percha to saddle up became a huge energetic effort. I was dizzy and tense all the time, but I didn’t understand why.
Eventually, I realized that my symptoms were familiar—they were the same ones I had after my brain injury. I saw a doctor, who confirmed that brain injury symptoms could resurface under stress. I took a few weeks off, but even after returning, I wasn’t quite myself.
I ignored my body’s signals and pushed harder, determined to keep going the way I was used to and to ride Percha just on my own. I wasn’t physically fit, and my anxiety was sky-high, but I still went ahead. With what I learned after, I can say I was very lucky that I did not injured myself badly during that time.
But one day, a loud noise startled Percha, while I was sit on him, he bolted again and I fell off, bruised even though not seriously hurt. The real problem was that I had lost control of myself, long before that fall. I had been lost for months—my confidence gone, my trust in myself shattered. I felt like I had failed my journey with Percha, lost myself, and didn’t understand why.
This point marked the start of a new phase in my journey—the phase where I confronted trauma and dissociation. It was a dark time, terrifying even, but it ultimately led me to the light of today.
But what happened next? Stay tuned—the most profound part of the journey is yet to come.
What an open and moving beautiful story about yourself you share here Martha. ❤️ Thanks