The Weight of Guilt – Letting Go of What We Couldn't Control

Cole and I in our early years together

If I’m being honest, I don’t talk about Cole much — not because he wasn’t important, but because the pain still sits heavy. I still choke up saying his name, even when it’s tied to a happy memory. When I lost him, I didn’t just lose a horse. I lost the part of myself that felt safe, grounded, and understood.

Cole wasn’t just any horse. Cole was magic. He was my constant in the chaos. My best friend. My partner. The one who met me wherever I was — messy, broken, exhausted, hopeful. His eyes knew more about my story than most people ever will.

When I made the heart-wrenching decision to rehome him, I did so with high hopes. I imagined him spending the rest of his days roaming a peaceful farm, letting kids climb on his back, soaking up love, and enjoying a slow, happy life. But that wasn’t the ending he got.

When I was notified of his passing, a part of me shut down.

I didn’t rehome Cole because I wanted to. I did it because I had to — during a time of survival. I was coming out of a divorce, trying to rebuild a life for myself and my daughter. I had three horses and I was killing myself just to keep them. We couldn’t even ride often or spend time with them because I was constantly working —

not just to pay for horses, but to keep a roof over our heads.

I became the breadwinner, and crumbs weren’t going to cut it anymore.

Even though I knew I had no other choice, that didn’t quiet the guilt. It didn’t stop the whispers: “You failed him.” It didn’t stop the late nights wondering if I should have kept him instead of Dexter. Wondering if he knew I didn’t abandon him —

I just couldn’t hold on anymore.

Most people don’t realize how deep the bond with a heart horse goes — or how deeply it hurts when it’s broken. It’s not “just a horse.” It’s years of memories, healing, lessons, and unconditional love wrapped in one powerful soul.

I still have the saddle I used to ride him in. I’ve posted it for sale more than once. But every time, I remember the miles we traveled together, and I pull the ad. No amount of money can replace those memories.

For a long time, I wore my guilt like armor. I thought if I carried the pain long enough, it would somehow make it right. I thought hurting meant I still cared — that grief was proof of love.

I even felt guilty riding Dexter — the horse I chose to keep. He’s a good horse. One I enjoyed long before I ever said goodbye to Cole. But after rehoming Cole, any joy I felt in the saddle with Dexter stung. I questioned myself constantly.

But slowly, I’m learning something: Guilt doesn’t honor Cole. Healing does.

Cole wouldn’t want me to give up riding forever. He wouldn’t want his memory to be something that hurts. He’d want me to keep going. To keep teaching. To keep helping others the way he helped me. And I believe he’d want KS Riding to continue giving horses a safe and soft place to land.

That’s why I ride again. That’s why I teach. That’s why KS Riding is back.

Every lesson I give…Every nervous rider I guide…

Every child who falls in love with horses for the first time — I do it for Cole.

He taught me how to be gentle. How to trust. How to understand fear. He was my teacher long before I ever became one. And I carry him with me —

not in guilt, but in purpose.

So if you’re carrying guilt too — over a decision you had to make, a horse you had to let go, or a life that didn’t go the way you planned — I want you to hear this:

You did the best you could with what you had. And that is enough.

You’re allowed to miss them and still move forward. You’re allowed to grieve and still grow. You’re allowed to let go of the weight… without letting go of the love.

Cole’s not gone. He’s just riding with me now, in a different way.

And yes — I still give the horses extra cookies in his honor.

That was his favorite part about being a lesson horse.