Horses are Magical… and Healing Takes Longer than You Think.

Last spring was a busy one on the farm.

Scout and Arrow came home first, full of opinions and energy. Beau followed about a month later, delayed by a long, stubborn gut bug that needed time to fully clear before he could join them.

By the time Beau arrived, he was ready to party. He stepped off the trailer as my goofy draft cross who believes personal space is optional and that air exchange, a horse thing involving pressed noses and very intentional breathing into each other’s faces, is the highest form of affection towards humans. He loves a good snuggle. He loves snacks. And, as it turns out, he also has a talent for chaos.

The day he got hurt started the way many farm stories do: the horses were somewhere they absolutely were not supposed to be.

(They would like me to inform you that they STRONGLY disagree).

They were deep in the hay storage, happily helping themselves, when my husband set off the camera siren to move them out. The herd spooked and bolted, running through a man gate that was very much not designed for fleeing horses let along an aloof growing two year old draft cross.

The gate caught Beau across the upper arm. The skin tore and peeled away from the muscle underneath.

My husband said, “You should probably have a look at it… but I’m sure it’s fine.”

It was not fine.

My first words were, “Oh shit. I’ll call the vet.”

Beau, meanwhile, was completely unfazed. He stood in the barn enjoying extra snacks and visiting with the cats, as if this were a planned event and not a medical emergency.

The cut was about four inches long, shaped like an L, and deep enough that when the vet explored it, all of his fingers disappeared beneath the skin. Thankfully, the muscle itself wasn’t damaged, but the skin had fully separated from it. It was confronting. It was gross. And I’ll admit—the body nerd in me had a brief moment of awe. Skin. Fascia. Muscle. Lymph fluid doing exactly what it’s meant to do.

Bodies are fascinating.

Once Beau was stitched and stabilized, we ran straight into the next problem. Horses, it turns out, are not known for leaving injuries alone. And there are no Elizabethan collars big enough for a curious, determined two year old.

So I popped a jacket onto Beau.

It wasn’t ideal, especially with our constantly changing weather, but within twenty-four hours he proved that if given even the smallest opportunity, he would pull his stitches and his wound drain.

(He also ate the drain… Horses are magical.)

Running and playing were no longer options, so Beau moved into a smaller paddock with Archie—our twenty year old herd leader and professional fun police. Archie made sure Beau slowed down, but still moved enough to keep his body working. Enough motion to help. Not enough to cause damage.

Every day meant bringing Beau into the barn. Hot compresses. Cleaning. Careful hands on a wound that was healing from the inside out. With an injury this large, there was no fixing it quickly. All we could do was support the process and not get in the way.

Rest, I was reminded, doesn’t mean stillness.

It means the right amount of movement at the right time.

For weeks, the routine stayed the same. Watch his gait. Watch how he stood. How he lay down. How he got back up. Beau is two and still growing, still figuring out where his feet even are, so there were no rehab exercises or structured plans. Just observation. Patience. Letting the body show us what it needed.

The hardest part—for both of us—was time.

That moment—when he pulled his stitches—quietly changed everything. What should have been a two-week recovery stretched into eight, and the wound had to close on its own. Suddenly this wasn’t just about skin anymore. It became about scar tissue. About fascia. About how a young, growing body adapts when healing doesn’t go according to plan.

What surprised me most was how normal he looked before we even knew he was injured. In the field, no one would have guessed anything was wrong unless they looked directly at his leg. The body compensates quickly. Sometimes too quickly for our liking.

Now, with the scab nearly gone, the next phase begins. Supporting the scar as it settles. Making sure tissue doesn’t bind or pull. Watching how Beau moves as he grows, knowing this moment will quietly influence the ones that follow.

This is the part of healing people don’t talk about much.

Healing doesn’t move in a straight line. It zigzags. It backtracks. It scribbles. There were days I thought I’d be calling the vet again. Days it felt like we’d undone weeks of progress. And then, slowly, things would shift forward again.

Beau is himself now. Goofy. Curious. Completely unaware of the size of his scar or the lessons attached to it. He moves freely. He plays. He rests when he needs to - or when Archie declares its nap time.

Watching him has been a reminder I carry into my work every day: the body is always trying to find balance. Our job isn’t to rush it or overpower it. It’s to pay attention. To support. To stay patient when progress doesn’t look the way we expected it to.

Sometimes healing looks dramatic.

Sometimes it looks boring.

And sometimes it looks like a young horse standing in the barn, eating snacks with the cats, while everyone else panics.