Bullet: The Horse Who Carried My Family Through Grief and Growth

He came into my life like a storm—a powerful, four-legged machine,encapsulated by the name Bullet.

His coat shimmered like a story only the desert sun could tell—gorgeous grulla, marbled mane, and lungs that could charge the air with raw, unfiltered power. I first slipped onto his back in the heart of the Arizona desert, and from the moment we moved, I knew: this wasn’t just a horse. This was a rocket wrapped in muscle, a soul that could go from 0 to 60 in the blink of an eye.

His eye holds a story, a language, a knowing. You don't teach it- you listen to it. Bullet knew. He always knew.

He was electric. But he was also kind. And in his kindness, he brought me back to a place I had lost for a while—the place where I loved horses, where I understood them, where I knew I was made to connect with the mind of a 1000-pound being and hold space for their power, their whispers, and their stories.

Because horses don’t speak the way we do—They speak in a language that is loud yet quiet. You have to listen. They read your heart before you know it’s beating fast. They carry your pain before you admit it’s too heavy. And Bullet—he listened in a way few could.

He took his power and let me channel it—turned it into a dance around three barrels in the arena, chasing times, chasing the wind, chasing the wild in both of us. I never felt the full depth of what he could do. I don’t think I ever could. Because he wasn’t just mine—he was destined to carry another.

In time, he would become the horse my youngest daughter needed most. After her heart was shattered by the loss of her rodeo horse—a horse that slipped away in her arms on a quiet June evening—Bullet became her safe place. She would climb on his back, ask for his all, and every time, without fail, he would give it. Every kick, every kiss, every cluck… he’d answer with his heart.

He became her protector. Her partner.Her healer.

In the fall mornings of Montana, Bullet would walk like a king—majestic, proud, steady. And I, too, was starting over—trying to find my footing, rebuild a life, and believe in new beginnings. He was there for it all. Carrying not just my daughter, but the silent weight of our family’s grief. The unspoken ache. The dreams we hadn’t voiced yet.

What we didn’t know was that Bullet was carrying something else, too. A pain.A sickness. It was hidden, like so many burdens are, until it was too much to hold.

In the fall of 2024, Bullet returned to Montana for what would be his final winter—standing strong in the cold, a reminder of resilience, until the spring of 2025, when he ran on to greener pastures. There, I like to think, he found Bailey waiting. I imagine them now—running wild together, no fences, no bridles, no pain.

Bullet, you gave your all. You carried her well. You carried us well.

I will love you forever. Thank you for running into my life, for redirecting my path, for joining the journey we never expected.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there to say goodbye. But I know you heard it—in the wind, in the quiet, in the unspoken language that only horses understand.

Rest easy, Bullet. Run free.

Frost on the ground, first light in the sky, and Bullet walking toward me like he always knows when the world needs stillness.