🤍 Heaven 🤍

Thoroughbred born in 2020

Rescued from Slaughter Lot in Bowie, Texas 

I wake now beneath the Florida sun, warmth spilling over my back as Spanish moss sways from the great oaks above, easing me into the gentleness of a peaceful morning. Light and love come gently here. Hands move slowly, voices stay even, and the halter arrives like an invitation instead of a demand. My body no longer braces for what might happen next. It has learned the shape of kindness.

There was a time in my youth when the ground felt uncertain beneath me. I stood on a crowded lot beside horses I did not know. The air was thick with heat and the sharp scent of worry. Noise rang against metal rails. I was chased with a crinkling bag tied to the end of a stick, urged to move, to show myself. So I moved the only way I knew how. I let my knees lift and my tail rise. I was very young then—a yearling, perhaps eighteen months. Time had not yet arranged itself into numbers for me. I only knew I did not want to fade into the noise.

On May 7, 2022, the direction of my steps changed. I was guided through a narrow metal chute and into a trailer. This time the floor was thick with bedding, soft enough to rest upon. Beside me stood a big brown mare. She tilted her head in greeting and, sensing my trembling, pressed her nose against my neck as if to say, it is all right—we will stand through this together.

We traveled a long way. Day folded into night; sunlight on open roads gave way to bright lines of passing cars. When the trailer finally slowed, the air felt different—cooler, cleaner. Grass stretched wide and green. Horses ran to the fences, nickering and calling. I wondered if they were calling to me. It seemed a place where there was room to breathe.

My legs quivered as I stepped down. I had not been many places in my short life, yet I knew this one was not like the rest. On the lot they had called me the red filly, the feral one, not halter-broke. Wild, they said. But here, time itself seemed to soften. The brown mare stepped off before me and stood tall, looking around with quiet certainty. We were led into adjoining stalls. Being able to see her, to hear her steady breathing, settled something deep inside me.

When a halter was offered, I tipped my nose into it. Not because I was forced, but because the hands holding it were calm and sure. They had called me feral. I did not feel wild. I felt waiting. And at last, someone was listening.

Life slowed in that northern pasture. Grass grew thick beneath my feet. Grain came each day. My ribs rounded with good feed. I learned the pleasure of being brushed without restraint, of standing still because I chose to stand. The people there watched me not to judge, but to understand. They noticed how I carried my head, which companions I drifted toward, when curiosity brightened my step. They allowed me to grow into my own shape.

As my confidence took root, I wanted to play. That is when I met Angel, Red, and Little Pea—newer arrivals, wide-eyed and watchful. Though I was young, I felt steadier beside them. Angel, especially, became my heart-friend. We raced the fields, bucked into the clear air, and wheeled back again, daring one another to go faster. For the first time, joy did not vanish as quickly as it came.

Visitors leaned along the fence rails from time to time, their voices soft with admiration. One day, a woman named Lucie McKinney stood watching. I felt her before I fully saw her—a stillness that met my own. When I moved, she laughed quietly. There was no hurry in her gaze, only recognition. Soon after, I traveled again, this time toward open skies and salt-tinged air in Florida. Red and Angel came too—our own bright leaving. Little Pea remained, content in her independence and close to Sweet Pea.

Coming to Florida feels like stepping into a wider field. Here I am given room to stretch into the horse I am becoming. I am trained with patience. I am fed for strength. I am asked, not pushed. My legs grow stronger. My stride grows longer. I lift my knees because I can.

They estimate I was born in 2020, perhaps 2021. I do not measure myself by calendars. I measure by the firmness of the ground beneath me and the wind in my mane when I run. Youth lives in my muscles. My life feels open and waiting.

I am Heaven. I love the feel of a well-fitted saddle and the quiet word that follows a good effort. I rest my chin near Lucie’s shoulder when she lingers. I still dance sometimes, just to feel the lift of it. Only now, when I land, the ground beneath me is sure.