​Registered Name: Captured Angel

Born in New York | February 2017

Sired by Danza Out of Caviar Crush by Successful Appeal

​​I remember warmth before I remember anything else. The softness beneath my legs, my mother’s breath along my neck, the way her body curved around mine so the world felt held together. The stall was quiet enough to feel safe. People came and went, their voices curious, their hands gentle. I stayed close to my mother. She was everything then—shelter, certainty, home.

I grew up among other foals, learning the shape of belonging. The farm felt endless, fenced wide and green, a place where the horizon never threatened us. But as I grew stronger, things began to shift. One day our mothers were gone. Not far—we could hear them—but unreachable. I called until my voice felt thin. We all did. We survived by staying close to one another, learning how to be brave together. Later, we were reunited, older and changed. I remembered my mother, but by then I also knew how to stand on my own.

Time passed in the fields. Winters were long and unforgiving. We lived outside no matter the weather. Food came in round bales, just enough. The grain stopped. The hands stopped. Halters disappeared or tightened as bodies grew. We learned how to keep our distance, how not to be caught. We had each other, and the seasons, and that was all.

Then the day came when the ground shook with engines. Trucks filled the gate. Men arrived on strange horses, shouting, cracking whips. Panic tore through us. We ran until our lungs burned, until bodies collided and friends fell. I was driven into a trailer slick with fear, struggling to stand as the world lurched and screamed around me. I had never left the farm before. I thought my heart might break open.

The barn we were taken to swallowed sound. Loudspeakers cut the air. I lost sight of my friends. One by one, we were pushed through gates, chased loose into a ring where nothing made sense. I had no halter. No words. Just fear and the memory of grass.

When it ended, I was emptied out. Everything familiar was gone. And then—impossibly—I saw faces I knew. Two of my friends. We were together again. We walked into another trailer, this one bedded, quieter. Exhaustion settled over us like a blanket. We did not know where we were going. But we were not alone.

At Unbridled, life changed slowly. No one rushed me. Food came regularly. Hands waited for permission. I learned how to halter again, how to follow a lead, how to play games that asked me to think instead of flee. Trust returned in small pieces. My friends grew confident. So did I.

Now, I like learning. I like the way people speak softly and listen when I hesitate. I like standing in the paddock with my companions, knowing no one is coming to scatter us. I feel my body again—strong, capable, present.

The name that belongs to me, the one that followed me through fear and into safety, is Angel.