I remember the first years as open space and unanswered distance. Wind through my mane, seasons changing without markers, my body growing faster than guidance arrived. I learned to watch from far away, to move when pressure came, to rely on the herd more than any hand. Hunger came and went. So did fear. I did not know what I was meant to become, only that I had been made with intention and then left to decide the rest on my own.

Before the quiet fields, there was promise wrapped around me like expectation. I was bred carefully, shaped by lineage, spoken about before I understood language. But plans can vanish overnight, and when they did, structure dissolved. Fences became suggestions. Care became irregular. Humans were distant shapes, unpredictable and best avoided. My hooves grew long. My body carried what it could not shed. Trust thinned. Time stretched. I survived by staying alert and staying with my own kind, learning a feral patience that kept me safe but never settled.

The moment everything shifted did not feel dramatic. It felt crowded. Strange horses. Tight spaces. The air thick with urgency and unfamiliar sounds. I did not know where I was going or why. I only knew that the ground beneath me was changing again, and that change had never been kind before. When the trailer doors closed, I braced for more loss. I had learned that endings arrived without warning, and that no one explained them.

What came instead was slowness. Not immediately—at first, there was distance, careful watching on both sides. A year passed where nothing was demanded except tolerance. Food arrived consistently. My body began to repair itself in small, unremarkable ways. Parasites left. My feet found balance. My mouth softened. The space around me stopped feeling like a trap. I was allowed to say no. I was allowed to take time. No one rushed my readiness or measured my worth by how quickly I complied. That patience changed me.

As my nervous system settled, so did my curiosity. I noticed other horses again—not just as protection, but as companions. I found familiarity in one who looked like me, red-coated and bright with white, and standing beside her made the world feel less confusing. Later, another arrived who needed a friend as much as I once had. We chose each other easily, and play returned to my body like a forgotten language. Running became joy instead of obligation.

Now my days are shaped by learning, not proving. I winter where the air is soft and my muscles can work without tension. I listen. I try. I am allowed to be inexperienced without being punished for it. I am not here to produce, to race, or to replicate myself. I am here to be known. I am seven years into a life that finally feels like it belongs to me. I am Red, and for the first time, the path ahead is not a question mark. It is an invitation.

​​Red 🤍

​Born in New York on March 18, 2018

Sired by Shackleford Out of Tapit N Go by Tapit