I remember the sky first. Wide, patient, stretching farther than my legs could carry me. Oklahoma light feels different on the skin—soft but endless. I was small then, still figuring out where my feet belonged, and the safest place in the world was pressed up against my mother’s side. She smelled like dust and effort and something gentler underneath. She had come a long way to bring me into the world, and even then I could see how much she had already given. Her legs told stories without words. I stayed close. I always stayed close.

Before I knew what was expected of me, I knew her. I learned how to stand by watching her stand. How to listen by watching her ears. Humans came and went, but she was constant. When I was taken from that early quiet and asked to grow up fast, it didn’t make sense in my body. I was still learning balance, still curious about everything, when I was pushed into movement that felt wrong. I raced because I was told to. Twice I finished behind everyone. Once I managed to pass a couple of others, but there was no relief in it. My chest burned. My mind wanted out. I remember thinking that this wasn’t what legs were for. I carried the feeling of refusal quietly, the way gentle horses do.

The change came without explanation, as changes often do. New places, new hands, unfamiliar sounds. I held myself together the best I could. Somewhere along the way, wire tangled into my tail and stayed there, a reminder of how little time anyone had to notice small things. When I arrived here, I was wary but open. It took a bit for my body to believe I could relax. When the wire finally came free, I felt lighter than I had in a long time. My tail grew back long and full, like it was meant to be.

And then something impossible happened. I saw my mother again. I knew her before my nose reached her—my body knew. I hurried forward, heart loud with recognition. She sniffed me, considered me, and then returned to her friends like a queen who had already built her life. That was enough. Seeing her comfortable, fed, surrounded by care, did something deep inside me. It closed a circle I didn’t know was still open. Everyone says I look like her. I hope that’s true.

Now my days are simple and good. I like walking best—steady, quiet rides where nothing is demanded beyond presence. A western saddle suits me fine. I don’t need speed. I need time. I have a best friend named King, younger than me and full of ideas. We play, and I let him think he’s teaching me things. I’m still a baby here, they say, and maybe that’s right. I finally get to be one.

I feel lucky—now, especially now. My life didn’t really begin until it slowed down. I am Hooper’s Joy. I have my mother’s eyes, her gentleness, and at last, a life that fits the way I move through the world.