I left a long, lucrative career in tech because something within me longed for a different kind of accountability–to life, to presence, to purpose. The MSSPA answered that call. There, horses arrive quietly, without words and often without trust, having endured unimaginable neglect and abuse. Their stories live in guarded bodies and wary eyes. My job is to listen, to speak for those who have no voice, to stay when leaving would be easier.

One of those moments came with Suzannah, a young Friesian mare who endured profound neglect before coming to the rescue. Shortly after arriving at the farm, Suzannah experienced colic, a common, sometimes fatal, ailment in horses. As we waited for the vet, she lay sweating and trembling in pain; I feared her young body was too compromised to overcome this illness. I sat alongside her, telling her how loved she was. I asked her to fight. I promised if she was too tired, I would help her find her wings. When she died, I understood the essence of this work: showing up matters, even when the outcome is unbearable. Especially then.

That understanding carried me into a different experience with Calli, an unhandled Arabian mare who stepped off the trailer shaking in fear. For two years, her rehabilitation has unfolded in humbling and hard-fought inches–learning to tolerate touch and to trust enough to receive care. Even today, when the old fear flickers in her eyes, I see courage right behind it, and my heart bursts with gratitude for her lessons in vulnerability and resilience. That’s the reciprocity of rescue: it is deeply rewarding and often heartbreaking, but it is never one-sided. The horses give back in small moments–a softened breath, a tentative reach, a choice to trust–that rewire something in me as well. The world often looks away from suffering, but there is hope in small acts of giving back and allowing ourselves to be changed by those we serve–standing in the hard places together and quietly refusing to abandon one another.