Some Days, Even Purpose Feels Heavy

The last three days have been hard. Really hard. And I have to tell you, as I get older, I find that the days when I just want to throw my hands in the air and say, “I can’t do this anymore,” seem to come a little more often.

That’s a hard thing for me to admit because I’ve always been the person who figures it out. The person who finds another way when there doesn’t seem to be one. The person who believes there’s a miracle somewhere in the mess, even when the mess is so big I can’t see a way through it.

But I’m also human. And sometimes I get tired of being the person who has to figure everything out.

For almost 11 years, my life has revolved around Journey with Equus, the animals who have found their way here, and the people whose lives have been changed because of them. What started with a belief that we could make a difference has grown into something far bigger than I ever imagined. And with that growth has come a level of responsibility that’s difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it.

Every morning, before most people have even had their first cup of coffee, there are lives depending on us. Not just one or two. An entire herd of horses, donkeys, and other animals, each with a story, each with individual needs, and every single one deserving of the safety and care we promised when we brought them into our world.

And lately, the weight of those promises has felt especially heavy.

We’re facing some of the most significant financial challenges we’ve ever experienced. The cost of hay alone has become almost overwhelming, and right now, nearly every dollar we bring in goes straight toward keeping everyone fed. The veterinary bills, farrier bills, medications, maintenance, and end-of-life expenses don’t stop just because hay prices have gone through the roof. The people who provide those services have businesses and families to support, too, and they deserve to be paid.

And yes, there are days when I wonder how much longer I can keep carrying all of this.

Then something happens that reminds me why I started.

Take a look at the pictures of this beautiful mare.

She ran more than 74 races before retiring at just nine years old. Seventy-four races. Think about what that means for a horse, how many times she was asked to run, how much was demanded of her body, and how fortunate she was to make it out of racing alive. So many Thoroughbreds never get the opportunity to grow old, much less find a safe place to spend the rest of their lives.

We were blessed that some wonderful friends were able to convince her owners to let her retire here. And she is truly one of the sweetest souls you could ever meet.

For whatever reason, she’s also the horse who always seems to be getting hurt in her herd. This time she somehow managed to take a pretty good chunk out of her knee, which meant another veterinarian visit, another unexpected expense, and another moment when everything else had to stop because one of our animals needed us.

As I stood beside her while the veterinarian worked, she gently leaned her forehead into me.

Yes, she was sedated. I know that. But standing there with her, feeling the weight of her head resting against me, I couldn’t help but think about everything this mare has been through and the trust she has somehow managed to hold on to.

And then I looked over at Teddy.

Teddy is her favorite horse and the leader of their herd. That boy never took more than a step away from her. He stood there with his head pressed against her, staying close through the entire process, clearly concerned about what was happening to his friend.

I wish I could have bottled that moment and handed it to every person who has ever looked at a horse as nothing more than a tool, a commodity, a paycheck, a race result, or something to be discarded when it no longer serves a purpose.

Because what I witnessed standing there was something far more meaningful than any of those things.

These animals have relationships. They have feelings. They form bonds. They recognize when something isn’t right with another member of their herd. They grieve losses, celebrate reunions, and offer a kind of presence that I believe we humans could learn a great deal from.

And for nearly 11 years, I’ve dedicated my life to making sure more of them get the opportunity to simply be who they are.

But there’s another side of this life that I don’t think people always understand.

Every once in a while, someone will make a comment that it seems like everything we do is about money.

Well, folks, I hate to break it to you, but in a very real sense, it is.

Not because money is what drives me. If money were my motivation, I can promise you I would have chosen a very different path a long time ago. And please understand something. I’ve given up every bit of financial security I had, every bit of retirement I had worked for, and every financial cushion I might have once been able to fall back on, all to keep moving this mission forward. Not because someone asked me to, and certainly not because it was the easy choice. But because I made a promise to these horses. A promise that when they came through our gates, they would be safe, they would be cared for, and they would never again have to wonder whether their lives mattered. And time and time again, when faced with choosing between my own financial security and keeping that promise, I’ve chosen them. I continue to choose them. But I also know that I cannot keep sacrificing everything personally and expect that to be a sustainable way to operate an organization. Something has to change.

Love doesn’t buy hay. Passion doesn’t pay the veterinarian. Good intentions don’t pay the farrier, repair broken fences, maintain equipment, or cover the cost of giving an animal a peaceful and dignified ending when that time comes.

We’ve built this organization on a tremendous amount of love, sacrifice, determination, and sheer stubbornness. But love and determination, no matter how powerful, cannot replace financial resources.

And somewhere along the way, I think we also need to have a conversation about what it really means to support a nonprofit.

People call me from time to time wanting to start their own rescues. And I understand why. There is something incredibly beautiful about helping an animal who has been forgotten, watching them heal, and knowing you played a part in giving them another chance.

But rescue isn’t glamorous.

It’s not just beautiful pictures, happy endings, and heartwarming stories. It’s the horse who needs emergency veterinary care at the worst possible moment. It’s the animal whose medical needs will continue for the rest of its life. It’s trying to figure out how to purchase enough hay for another week while wondering how you’re going to pay the people who have already shown up to help.

It’s also knowing that sometimes, no matter how much you love them or how hard you’ve fought for them, you will have to make the decision to let them go.

We have a horse in foster care right now who may be nearing the end of his journey. And that weighs on me, too. Because when you make the commitment to save a life, you’re also accepting the responsibility of being there when that life comes to an end.

Those are the parts of rescue you don’t see in the beautiful photographs.

And there’s another reality I’ve been wrestling with lately.

There’s only one of me.

I can accomplish a tremendous amount in a day. I’ve spent most of my life proving that. But I cannot be the sole fundraiser, the executive director, the person who knows every horse’s history and needs, the volunteer coordinator, the event planner, the person managing emergencies, the one building relationships and partnerships, and the person expected to personally meet every need of every individual who walks through our gates.

I can’t do all of that and still find the time and energy to build the financial foundation this organization desperately needs.

And frankly, I shouldn’t have to.

A nonprofit was never meant to be one person carrying an entire mission on their shoulders. It’s supposed to be a community of people who come together because they believe in something bigger than themselves.

I think sometimes we lose sight of that.

There are people who come into the world of rescue because they genuinely want to make a difference. And then there are people who are drawn to the energy of the place, the animals, the people, or the connections they hope to find.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting connection. In fact, helping people find connection, healing, and a deeper understanding of themselves is a huge part of why Journey with Equus exists.

But there’s a difference between coming to serve a mission and coming with the expectation that the mission, or the people leading it, are there to fulfill your personal needs.

And I think that’s an important distinction.

When you walk through our gates as a volunteer, you’re walking through those gates to make a difference for the animals. You’re coming because you believe their lives matter and you want to contribute something that helps us care for them.

It’s not about how much personal attention I can give you, how important you feel, or whether the day unfolds around what you hoped to experience.

It’s about the cause.

If what you’re seeking is healing, emotional support, or personal growth, we have programs specifically designed for that. It’s work I believe in deeply, and it’s one of the reasons our rescued animals partner with us in helping humans find their way.

But volunteering and participating in a wellness experience are not the same thing. Both have a place here, but they come with different expectations.

We’ve also made changes to how people access the ranch. Visits are by appointment only. Gate codes are no longer freely shared. Volunteers have guidelines, schedules, responsibilities, and safety requirements.

And I know not everyone likes those changes.

But this is a working ranch and an organization responsible for the lives of a very large number of animals. We have insurance and liability requirements, equipment moving around the property, animals with medical needs, feeding schedules, and safety considerations that cannot be left to chance.

I cannot be everywhere at once. We need structure. We need accountability. We need people who understand that boundaries aren’t a rejection of anyone. They’re part of protecting what we’ve worked so hard to build.

And perhaps more importantly, we need people who show up with a servant’s heart.

People who understand that philanthropy isn’t about what the cause can do for you. It’s about what you can do for the cause.

Sometimes that’s writing a check. Sometimes it’s rolling up your sleeves and doing the work nobody notices. Sometimes it’s bringing your professional expertise, opening a door, making an introduction, organizing a project, or taking responsibility for something that allows me to focus on the things only I can do.

Some of the most extraordinary people in our world do exactly that. They show up, they follow through, and they make a difference without needing recognition or applause. I cannot begin to express how much those people mean to me.

Because right now, what we need more than anything is people who are willing to help carry the mission, not add more weight to the shoulders already carrying it.

We need people who believe in creating a sustainable future for these animals. We need consistent donors who can help us establish a dependable hay fund so that every morning doesn’t begin with another scramble to find enough money to feed everyone. We need help catching up with the veterinary and farrier expenses that continue to accumulate. And we need people willing to share their time, professional expertise, resources, and connections to help us build a stronger foundation for the rescue and the lives depending on it.

We don’t need everyone to do everything.

We need enough people willing to do something meaningful.

For almost 11 years, I’ve given up luxuries, security, and opportunities that might have made my own life a whole lot easier. I’ve put everything I have into trying to build a place where forgotten animals matter and where those animals, in turn, can help humans heal.

I don’t regret the lives we’ve saved or the work we’ve done. But I would be lying if I said the personal cost hasn’t been enormous.

And as I sit here reflecting on the last three days, I don’t have some grand inspirational message that ties everything up with a pretty bow.

I’m tired. I’m worried. I’m frustrated. And there are moments when I’m genuinely afraid of what happens if we can’t find the help we need.

But then I walk outside.

I see that beautiful mare resting safely in her herd. I see Teddy keeping watch over his friend. I see the old horses who would have been forgotten, the donkeys who have found safety, the animals who have survived things they never should have had to endure.

And I see lives that are still here because somebody, somewhere along the way, decided they mattered.

Maybe that’s what keeps me getting up every morning, even on the days when I don’t know where the strength is going to come from.

I believe in these animals. I believe in the healing that happens here. I believe in the future we’re working to create. And I believe there are people out there who have the hearts, the resources, the knowledge, or the connections to help us make that future possible.

I just need to find them.

So if you’ve made it this far, thank you for listening to what’s been weighing on my heart.

If you’re someone who believes in what we’re doing, please don’t assume that someone else will step up. If you have the means to give, give. If you have relationships that could open doors, make the introduction. If you have skills that could help us move forward, reach out. And if you’re willing to become a consistent supporter of these animals, we’d love to have you become part of the foundation that keeps them safe.

Because the future of this rescue cannot rest on one person’s shoulders. It will take a community of people who believe these lives matter and are willing to help ensure they have a tomorrow.

Not for recognition. Not for applause. Not because I need to prove anything to anyone.

But because somewhere out there is another horse who hasn’t yet found safety. Another person who hasn’t yet discovered what these animals can teach them. Another life waiting for the opportunity to begin again.

And after everything we’ve built, everything we’ve sacrificed, and every life that now calls this place home, I want so badly to believe that we’re going to find a way.

Some days, even purpose feels heavy.

And today, I’m just hoping there are a few more shoulders willing to help carry it.