I was never one of those horse girls. You know the type. They’ve got shelves full of model horses. A pony they borrow or own at a local stable. Lessons they’ve had since the moment they learned to walk. They read Black Beauty, Misty of Chincoteague, and the Thoroughbred series. They love all the horse movies, especially that one where the girl and the horse dive into a swimming pool (why???!).

I’m Laura. I blog over at CopticDadandMom.com. I’m a Coptic Orthodox priest’s wife, and I’ve been blessed to meet Jen through the vast and insanely supportive network of clergy wives here on the interwebs. She wrote me some awesome guest posts, namely here and here.

As I was saying, I was never one of those horse girls, but one summer in my late teens, my sisters and I had the opportunity to have weekly riding lessons at a nearby farm. I can’t forget the smell the first day. I thought I would never get over it. I thought I would never wash it out of my hair.

Now don’t get me wrong. I was never one of those girly girls with the makeup and the hair and the things. But I certainly wasn’t a tomboy. That first day of riding hard in the heat and humidity of a mid-June day, I felt very unlady-like soaked as I was head to toe in sweat. Did princesses really do this?

And my job after riding for an hour in this heat? Clean the horse from head to toe. This was too much. You want me to pick up what? and pull what from where?

If you’re one of those horse girls, it won’t shock you to learn that after three weeks of this–of being drenched in sweat every Wednesday and dislodging rocks from horseshoes–I was completely transformed.

Never had I thrown myself so wholeheartedly into something (besides a book). Never had I dared to be present in my body and use it to its full capacity in such a way. The routine became essential to my life. Wake up, saddle up, ride hard, brush my horse, head home to shower and nap.

You couldn’t be disappointed on horseback. You couldn’t have your heart broken. You weren’t graded on anything but your improvement from the week before.

It was only one summer. The summer of the horse. The stable sold the horses and shut down, and I was off at college anyway, photographing models on the backs of polo horses (but that’s another story).

But summer for me will always be that breath you take when you’re coming around the second turn, breaking into a canter, and aiming for the fence.