The Things That Carry Us

There are certain animals that feel bigger than themselves.

Not because of their size, and not because of mythology, but because of what we have asked of them. Horses have carried us across continents, through wars, through childhood, through heartbreak. They have carried our weight—literally and metaphorically—for so long that sometimes I think we forget how extraordinary that is.

To trust something powerful enough to run from you, but choosing not to. To place your hands on something wild and have it answer with gentleness. There is something sacred about that exchange.

I think about trust a lot these days. Maybe because so much of life seems built around it. We trust people with our hearts. We trust cities with our memories. We trust tomorrow will arrive. And maybe trust feels so fragile because it always requires risk.

A while ago, I was asked to write something from the perspective of a horse. At first, I wasn’t sure how. How do you write from the perspective of something that cannot explain itself to you? Then I realized perhaps that was the wrong question entirely.

Because grief rarely explains itself either.

Neither does abandonment.
Neither does loyalty.

So I started somewhere simpler. I started with trust.

What stayed with me while working on this project wasn’t only the scale of what is happening to these animals. It was the betrayal.

These horses were not nameless. They belonged somewhere once. They were ridden, brushed, spoken to, cared for. They trusted people enough to follow them. And somewhere along the way, that relationship breaks. Not because the animal changed.

Because we did.

There is something difficult about learning information that asks something of you afterward. Because once you know something, truly know it, you cannot unknow it. You have two choices after that: look away, or carry the knowledge forward.

I think this is why storytelling matters.

Not because stories change the world by themselves.

But because stories change people.

And people change the world.

I recently partnered with filmmaker Ashley Avis and the Wild Beauty Foundation on a short film called The Lost Horses: Hope Still Runs In Me. The film is built around an original spoken word piece I wrote and narrated from the perspective of a horse.

Not because horses need poetry.

Because sometimes humans do.

Because sometimes feeling something deeply is what finally moves us.

The strange thing about writing is that sometimes you begin working on something believing you are telling someone else’s story, only to realize halfway through that you’re also telling your own. This became a story about trust. About what we owe one another. About the quiet responsibility we carry toward the things that once carried us.

What stayed with me most after writing this piece wasn’t simply sadness.

It was responsibility.

Because there is something difficult about learning information that asks something of you afterward. Once you know something, truly know it, you cannot unknow it.

If you’ve read this far, maybe that means this story stayed with you too.

Maybe that means you’re carrying it now.

If you want to learn more about The Lost Horses campaign, understand what’s happening, read the stories, or lend your voice, I invite you to visit:

Join the Cause

There are many ways to help, including sending a letter to your representatives—which takes only a few minutes, but could mean everything for a horse who cannot speak for itself.

Mostly, I hope this leaves you with a question.

What do we owe the things that trusted us?

Love from the shadows,

xx Atticus 🖤