I remember motion before meaning. Big feelings in a big body, legs that wanted to stretch farther than the space allowed. I was young and growing fast, the ground rushing under me before I understood why. Noise came first—crowds, gates, the tightness of anticipation—and then release. When I ran, everything lined up for a moment. In my last race, I crossed first. I remember the sudden joy around me, the hands on my neck, the voices lifted and proud. I won. They were so happy I won. I felt it ripple through my body like warmth.

Before that moment, my life moved quickly from place to place. I was born in New York, built big from the start, sold and sold again while I was still figuring out how to carry myself. Work came early. Too early for a body still unfolding. I tried anyway. That’s what I knew how to do. I ran four times, learning more each start, finishing closer, finding my stride. But my size carried consequences. My legs asked for time my schedule did not allow. When something inside me faltered, everything stopped at once.

After the win, there were no cheers—only quiet concern. Veterinarians filled the space around my stall. Hands pressed and scanned. Machines hummed. I stood still while decisions were made about my body without my understanding them. Then came another trailer, another ending I didn’t see coming. This one brought me to stillness. Four months of it. A stall, carefully wrapped legs, rest that felt endless to a young horse full of energy. I learned patience the hard way. I healed because I was allowed to. Slowly, deliberately.

When life began again, it did so gently. My body felt stronger each week, my tendon steady beneath me. And then I saw her. Leilea. She came into my days like calm certainty. She did not rush me. She groomed me, brushed me, worked with my body as if it mattered how it felt to be inside it. We learned together—poles on the ground, careful steps, quiet rides where my back could grow strong instead of strained. She listened when I spoke without words. I trusted her completely.

Here, I am allowed to be what I am: a baby in a very large frame, still growing, still playful, still learning how to use myself well. I play hard with my best friend, Hooper’s Joy. We leap and gallop and test the edges of joy together, knowing the ground beneath us is safe. No one yells for more. No one asks me to hurry. My size is no longer a problem—it is simply part of who I am becoming.

Now my days are full in the best way. Training that builds instead of breaks. Companionship that steadies me. Love that does not depend on winning. I know how close my life came to narrowing too soon, how many directions it could have taken. I don’t dwell there. I live here. I am King of the Castle, and for the first time, the name fits—not because I conquered anything, but because I am finally home.