Was That My Last Horse? A Look into Grief After Loss

Joy, begging for cookies… like the monster she was.

Was That My Last Horse?

There’s a certain silence that follows the loss of a horse.

It’s not just the absence of hoofbeats or the missing nicker at the gate. It’s a deeper quiet. One that settles into your bones. One that leaves your saddle untouched in the tack room and your heart aching with the kind of grief only horse people truly understand.

Maybe it was old age. Maybe it was sudden. Maybe you had time to prepare—or maybe you didn’t. No matter how it happens, losing your horse is a loss that ripples through every part of your life.

And somewhere in the sadness, this thought begins to whisper:

Was that my last horse?

You don’t say it out loud at first. You just think it.

You notice the halter hanging on the hook and wonder if it’ll ever be used again. You watch the pasture grow tall and untamed without hooves to trim it down. You scroll past sale ads or horse show photos with a pang of something between longing and doubt.

Because horses aren’t just pets. They are commitments. To time. To money. To energy. To emotion.

And when one is gone, it’s natural to wonder:

Can I do it again?

Do I have it in me to love like that again?

Am I still that person—one who belongs in the barn, in the saddle, beside a horse?

Grief is not linear. It’s not tidy. It doesn’t come with a timeline.

Some days you might feel numb, like you’re watching life unfold from the outside.

Other days you might ache so deeply that even the sound of hooves on a nearby trail brings tears.

You might feel guilt—Did I miss something? Did I do enough?

You might feel anger at the unfairness of it all, or an emptiness that no one else seems to see.

You might feel nothing at all, and wonder what that means.

Grief can live in the body:

In the lump in your throat when you drive past the feed store.

In the heaviness in your chest when you realize you don’t need to set an alarm for morning chores.

In the tightness in your jaw when someone says, “It was just a horse.”

I’ve had my own losses that come up every now and again, my business is named after one of my favorite mares that I lost all too soon. Joy was a menace to society, and wildly talented. When I look back at photos of her, I can’t help but smile. The tears fall less as I’ve completed a lot of emotional work around her loss, but my heart wonders what life would be Iike if she was the mare my son started to learn to ride on, and take him to his first show.

Well, maybe we were a menace to society together.

Here’s the truth:

Grief is love that no longer has a place to land.

It’s the echo of connection, the space where presence used to be.

It’s painful because it mattered. Because they mattered.

And if you’re grieving deeply, it doesn’t mean you’re stuck. It means you loved deeply. It means your bond was real.

So if you find yourself standing at the edge of an empty pasture, hand on the gate, heart wide open and cracked in all the places that horse filled—know this:

You’re not alone.

You don’t have to decide anything today.

And even if that was your last horse, the love you gave and received was never wasted.

Maybe one day, another set of hooves will find their way to your world.

Maybe not.

But either way—you are still a horse person.

You always will be.

And if you’re walking through this kind of grief, I want you to know—you don’t have to do it alone.

At JoyRidge Coaching, I offer a safe, supportive space for equestrians navigating loss, identity shifts, and the quiet questions we don’t always say out loud. Through Gestalt coaching, we honor your story, your horse, and the parts of you that are still healing.

If you’re ready to talk, I’m here.

No fixing. No forcing. Just presence, compassion, and the kind of listening that helps the heart breathe again.

Learn more or reach out at www.joyridgecoaching.com

Or email me directly at joyridgecoaching@gmail.com

Your grief is sacred.

Your story matters.

And you’re not alone on this path.