I grew up in a world where showing weakness was almost a sin. Our family believed in grit, in biting down on whatever hurt and riding through it without slowing, stumbling, or asking for help. My father always said, “If life throws a problem in your road, ride past it before it slows you down.”

That phrase shaped my entire childhood and eventually, my adulthood.
It taught me to keep silent when I was hurt, to act strong even when I was scared, and to move forward without ever looking back. I carried that mindset like armor.

But like all armor, it eventually became too heavy.

Learning to Live Without Pausing

By the time I was in my twenties, I handled life the way a rider handles rough terrain: gripping the reins tighter, pushing forward harder, ignoring the ache in my hands. People called me resilient, unstoppable, independent.

But the truth was simpler and far less heroic:
I didn’t know any other way to live.

When friends came to me with their problems, I listened but I never understood their need to talk things out. When relationships began to fall apart, I let them, thinking, Better to move on quickly than to feel the pain slowly.

I thought I was being strong.
I thought I was doing life right.
But real strength, I would later learn, has nothing to do with speed.

The Day Everything Shifted

It happened on a quiet afternoon, the kind that feels harmless sunlight soft, the air still, the world peaceful. I was riding along a familiar trail, the one I’d known since I was a kid. It was the one place I still felt completely at home.

Then, without warning, my horse stopped.
Dead stop.
No amount of pressure, nudging, or whispered encouragement moved him.

For the first time in years, I felt something unusual: uncertainty. A knot in my chest. A feeling that something wasn’t just off with him—but with me.

I dismounted, knelt beside him, and saw it: a small, almost invisible wound near his hoof. Something he couldn’t just “ride past.” Something that required stopping, noticing, caring.

And suddenly, everything in my life made sense—and none of it did.

A Lesson From the One Creature Who Never Judged Me

As I tended to his injury, a thought hit me with startling clarity:
I had treated my own life the way I expected him to handle pain ignore it and keep going.

My entire upbringing, every phrase my father used, every expectation placed on me it all centered on speed over healing, silence over vulnerability.

My horse, in his simple refusal to take another step, taught me something my entire childhood failed to explain:
Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stop.

Not run.
Not push.
Not pretend.
Just… stop.

Confronting the Family Culture

My father didn’t understand at first.
He asked why I was “overthinking” everything.
Why I wasn’t acting like the strong kid he raised.

But strength isn’t obedience.
It isn’t silence.
It isn’t sprinting past wounds and pretending they don’t exist.

Strength is stopping in the middle of the road, admitting something hurts, and taking the time to heal before moving forward.