I remember standing still while the world moved past me. Sound echoed off hard walls, sharp and hollow, and I held my breath so nothing more would be asked of me. My jaw ached in a deep, constant way, and my belly felt heavy and wrong, like it belonged to someone else. I watched boots, shadows, hands that reached and then did not. No one called me forward. No one claimed me. I learned that being quiet was safer than being seen, and that waiting did not always lead anywhere.

Before that place, there were many blanks. Long stretches where days blended together and care came without pattern. I learned how to manage hunger, how to stand when my body felt older than it should, how to accept discomfort as normal. My teeth wore their stories into my mouth, years of chewing without relief, pain left to settle and harden. I do not remember softness from those years, only endurance. I learned to be agreeable, to offer myself gently, because gentleness was the one thing that never failed me. Even when nothing else came, I could still choose that.

The moment that changed everything was quiet. A human stood close enough that I could feel warmth, close enough that leaving was no longer an option. Hands rested on my face, not to examine or measure, but to stay. A voice promised something without knowing if it could be kept. I did not understand the words, but I understood the intention. Soon after, there was movement again, but this time it carried a different weight. I did not know if I would be moved once more, or if this was the end of the road. I only knew that for the first time in a long while, someone had looked at me and decided I mattered.

When life slowed, it did so deliberately. Space opened around me. Food arrived without competition. The ache in my jaw was seen for what it was—old, untreated, but not a reason to give up. Time became something I was allowed to have. Specialists came and went, each one adding a piece to my story instead of closing the book. I was not rushed toward an ending. I was allowed to rest inside uncertainty, wrapped in care that did not depend on outcomes. Here, love does not require me to be fixed first.

Now I follow. I choose companionship the way others choose solitude. I seek out footsteps and walk alongside them, content just to be near. I greet other equine beings with an open heart, offering friendship without hesitation. My voice is soft, my gaze steady. I like contact, like knowing where everyone is, like being part of the day as it unfolds. I am older than I look, and still curious. I am Gemma, and this is where I finally get to live as myself.