I remember light first—the sharp California sun on my back, the smell of dust and eucalyptus, the feel of a body that worked easily then. Running shaped my days from the beginning. Different tracks, different stalls, different hands on the lead rope, and I learned to adjust each time. I tried as hard as I could for every single one of them. I carried their hopes across states and borders, and four times I stood in the winner’s circle while they gathered close, proud and smiling beside me. I remember the weight of the blanket, the cameras, the hands on my neck telling me I was good. That was my skill—giving everything that was asked. I did it again and again, without question, because moving forward was the only language I was ever taught.

Before the last silence, my life was movement and exchange. I was passed along carefully at first, then more quickly. I raced wherever I was sent, carrying speed and hope that never quite belonged to me. Sometimes I won, sometimes I followed others home, sometimes I finished with nothing left but breath. When racing ended, my body was still useful, just in a quieter way. I carried lives that were not meant to be mine. I learned the weight of expectation settling into my belly, the way humans counted months instead of moments. I lost sight in one eye somewhere along the way, and no one slowed down for that either. I kept going. That is what I knew how to do.

The place where everything narrowed was loud and empty at the same time. Metal underfoot. No grass. Air that smelled of fear and waiting. My hips showed. My spine pressed up through my skin. My belly was heavy again, and my body was tired of carrying more than itself. I stood behind bars with numbers stuck to me, valued only by weight. I did not know if the next door would open forward or close forever. I only knew I had reached the edge of usefulness once more.

Then movement came suddenly, urgent and final. I did not understand it, but I felt the direction change. When I arrived somewhere quieter, I was still braced for loss. In quarantine, my body began to speak honestly. I rested. I ate. I learned the sound of water that would keep coming. I learned the rhythm of care. And beside me stood another—small, broken in different places, blind where I could see and seeing where I could not. We fit without effort. Side by side, we made one complete view of the world. When she shifted in pain, I stayed close. When I startled, she grounded me. I had carried many lives before, but this felt like purpose chosen, not assigned.

Here, time slows in a way that heals. Deep bedding cushions my bones. Food nourishes instead of merely sustaining. My body is respected for what it has endured. I am not rushed past my losses. I am allowed to grieve the foal I did not get to keep, and to stand witness as my friend carries hers in safety. No one asks me to move away from her. My instinct to guard is welcomed. Honored.

Now I stand watch in a place where standing is enough. I am older, yes. I am marked by everything I have lived through. But I am no longer invisible. I am Global Love. I have crossed the country and the limits of my own endurance, and I have arrived somewhere that sees me whole. I know what unconditional care feels like now. I offer it back, quietly, every day, to the one beside me and to the life still unfolding here.