Jesse's story
Her name was Jesse.
In Hebrew, it means “gift.”
When Jesse arrived at Hope Reins - a nonprofit that rescues and rehabilitates horses and pairs them with children who are in life crisis - she was one of the most severely malnourished and traumatized horses the organization had encountered.
She was about 150 pounds under a healthy weight and her emaciated body was scarred. She had only half a tongue, and when she moved, one of her hind legs was visibly impaired.
The full details of her past were never known.
What we did know was that the United States Equine Rescue League had removed her from a home where she had suffered terrible neglect.
Her body told the story.
So did her behavior.
When someone directed attention toward her, Jesse became fearful and defensive - her eyes wide and ears back. And yet, when people approached her gently, something in her softened.
Not long after she arrived at Hope Reins, I had the privilege of becoming Jesse's trainer as a member of the Equine Training Team.
She had begun to regain her weight and was making progress with people, but she was very clear about one thing:
She did not choose to interact with people.
Her Answer Was No
Training sessions with Jesse didn't look much like training.
They felt like conversations.
Jesse would stand on one side of the arena with her hindquarters toward me and her nose pointed toward the gate. We were positioned this way because she would put as much distance between us as the unusually long 50-foot lead line would allow.
She couldn't have been clearer:
I don't want to be here.
So I didn't force her.
I would let her stand there while I sat quietly at the other end of the rope. Eventually, I would put the slightest amount of tension on the line and ask, Would you be willing to turn your nose toward me?
Jesse would move her nose farther away from me.
No.
So I waited.
If I felt the slightest softening in her body, I released the tension completely.
That was our conversation.
The next day, we'd have it again.
Little by little, Jesse began turning her nose toward me. Eventually, she began turning her whole body.
And then came the day I will never forget.
I took Jesse into the arena with the 50-foot lead rope, held it loosely, and started walking. But this time, Jesse slowly, calmly, beautifully walked toward me.
She had chosen to connect.
We walked shoulder to shoulder to a barrel where I sat down. It's happening, I thought. She is choosing to be here. After a few minutes, I gently unhooked the lead rope. I wanted her to know she was free to go wherever she wanted.
She stayed.
And we simply sat together for a long time, while she yawned, licked, and chewed.
When Jesse Became Part of the Work
In the beginning, I was extremely careful about how people interacted with Jesse.
She needed that protection.
Eventually, she didn't.
Jesse became strong, capable, and calm. She was able to interact with people without the level of caution she had once required.
At Hope Reins, the stories of the horses are part of the work with the children. Whenever possible, children are paired with horses whose experiences have some connection to their own. Jesse was often paired with children who had experienced significant trauma. They could hear her story. Then they could meet her.
Here was a horse who had been terribly neglected, who had once avoided people, and who now stood quietly beside them.
She allowed them to groom her.
She walked with them.
She participated with them.
And the children encountered a horse whose story was not finished at the place where she had been hurt.
Hope Reins described Jesse as becoming “one of our kids' most beloved horses.” They wrote that children with similarly traumatic backgrounds were drawn to her quiet, sensitive nature and understood her need for a loving and gentle leader.
Jesse's story began with neglect and trauma.
It could have ended there.
But it didn't.
Her name was Jesse.
It meant gift.
She was.
