The Longest Day - On this Father's Day

Dedicated to my Dad and my Boys!

The Longest Day - On this Father's Day

The Summer Solstice has always felt hopeful to me. Not because everything is going according to plan. Not because I have all the answers.

But because the longest day of the year reminds me there is still light ahead.

This year's Solstice arrived alongside Father's Day, and together they had me reflecting on the roads that have brought me here and the trails that still lie ahead.

A few days ago, I found myself thinking about a little chestnut horse named Handful.

Forty years ago, give or take a couple of years, I went to look at a horse for sale on a farm in Southwest Washington. The asking price was $600. At the time, I knew almost nothing about horses. In fact, I had only recently gone on a trail ride with a friend and somehow became convinced that I needed a horse.

Not wanted. Needed.

So there I was, standing in a pasture looking at this little chestnut Quarter Horse off the track.

I climbed on.

He bucked me off.

I landed squarely in the dirt.

As I stood up, brushing myself off, Handful walked right back over to me. I looked at him. He looked at me. And I said, "I'll take him."

Looking back, it may have been one of the least informed decisions of my life. What neither of us knew at the time was that a $600 horse would open the door to a lifetime of adventures, friendships, lessons, opportunities, and experiences that would help shape who I would become.

The funny thing is, horses weren't even part of my growing landscape. I grew up in Indiana showing hogs in 4-H. I traveled with my family. After Handful, I joined the military. I moved around the Pacific Northwest. I took risks. I followed opportunities. I said yes to adventures that didn't always make sense on paper. Looking back, my path has never been particularly straight. Or particularly predictable or conventional.

And honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Somewhere along the way, horses became one of the strongest threads woven through my story. Not the only thread. But certainly one of the most important.

My dad was one of my biggest supporters in those early years.

He helped feed Handful. He helped clean stalls. He listened to horse stories that probably seemed endless. He didn't have to understand the dream. He simply supported it.

Today, he and my boys wonder why I still devote so much time, money, and energy to horses. Truthfully, there are days when I wonder too. Horses have an amazing ability to turn a perfectly good budget into a suggestion.

But when I look back over my life, I realize horses have given me much more than riding. They have given me purpose. They have given me confidence. And during some of the more difficult chapters of my life—as life often does for many women—they helped hold me together. Through uncertainty, change, disappointment, and starting over, the horses still needed to be fed.They still needed care. They still expected me to show up. And somehow, in showing up for them, I learned how to keep showing up for myself.

But horses are not my whole story.

As I move closer to my 61st year, I find myself thinking less about what I've accomplished and more about what still matters. I want to spend more time in the backcountry. There is something about riding through wild country that helps me understand myself better than almost anything else. Give me a horse, a mountain trail, and enough miles to leave the noise behind.

Somewhere between the rhythm of hoofbeats and the quiet of the wilderness, things become clearer. Not easier. Just clearer. I want new adventures. I want new friendships. I want meaningful conversations and shared experiences. I want to keep learning and growing.

And I want to remain connected to my family.

One of the harder realities of moving to Oregon, closer to my Father, was putting more distance between myself and my boys and their families. Who, by the way, have all become amazing men and fathers. Their lives don't revolve around horses, not at all. Their adventures look different than mine. And that's exactly as it should be.

But I still want to be part of those adventures. I want to hear about the things that excite them. I want to know what my grandchildren are interested in. I want to celebrate their successes, encourage their dreams, and stay connected to the everyday moments that make up a life. Because while horses have shaped my life, family has shaped my heart.

A little over a year ago, I moved to Central Oregon hoping to build a new chapter. Some days I feel like I am exactly where I am supposed to be. Other days, it feels like the wagon is stuck firmly in the mud. Some days, purpose rises right to the surface. Other days, I find myself wondering if the doors I'm waiting on will ever open.

Maybe that's why the Summer Solstice speaks to me.

The light doesn't erase uncertainty. It doesn't tell us exactly where the trail goes. It simply reminds us that there is still light ahead.

And sometimes that is enough.

As the sun sets on the longest day of the year, I find myself feeling grateful.

Grateful for a father who supported a young woman and her little chestnut horse.

Grateful for the risks I've taken.

Grateful for the lessons I've learned.

Grateful for the people who continue to walk beside me.

Grateful for my boys and their families.

And hopeful for whatever comes next. At the end of the day, hope is what keeps me driving forward.

After all, some of the best things in my life began with uncertainty, a leap of faith, and absolutely no idea what I was doing.

Just ask Handful.

— MJ