I often speak as the collective voice of NCEFT, piecing together disparate voices and experiences to form one linear story.   Sometimes though, I need to tell a story as myself, and this happens to be just such a moment.

As an adaptive riding instructor I spend the better part of my afternoon trying to engage children in work disguised as games.  Tempting as it may sound to play like a 9 year old, in reality it’s exhausting to be that enthusiastic, that effusive, for more than a short period of time.  Intimidating as my schedule seems at 8am with the sun barely risen, the day passes more quickly than expected, aided by moments that serve to energize.

Each week like clockwork she’s there, a midafternoon boost to see me through the rest of the day.  Her session starts by walking hand-in-hand through the arena gate; she’ll hold it until we reach the top of the mounting block, her attention then turning to the bay pony waiting nearby.  I count to three with my fingers held up and then she’s on, throwing her leg over the pony’s back and settling into the saddle.  She looks at me and I shrug, miming confusion, “What should we do?”  She pats the saddle and places her hand on her chest.  Go, please.

I could list all the gains she’s made—the new signs she’s learning, how she’ll hold the reins and pull up to whoa—but she’s much more than validation of my work.  When we’re standing still she’ll often turn to me and pause with a smile on her face, holding that ever elusive eye contact for what seems like ages.  In that moment she emerges from the periphery of being and makes a connection, “I see you” her eyes say.

Those moments are better than any can of Red Bull or espresso shot.  They fill you up, contentedness working its way from the inside-out.  I know everyone at NCEFT, from therapists to volunteers, have similar experiences of fulfillment.  Next week I’ll go back to telling their stories, passing on the moments of joy we work so hard to help create.