The sweet smell of grass mixed with the warmth of sun-baked horse manure greeted me as I stepped outside into those perfect summer mornings. Back then, days were meant for running wild, weaving through trees, and living out grand adventures that only a child could imagine. My horse, Sage, was my faithful partner in every journey. I’d grab her halter, gently fasten it, and lead her over to the old wooden fence, climbing up to throw my leg over her back. With that, freedom coursed through my ten-year-old self—a freedom found in the steady, familiar stride of my red roan mare. That summer, she carried me for miles down the gravel road to the iron cattle guard that marked the entrance to our home, where I’d slip her through with ease.

Riding Sage was my taste of independence, an escape from everything around me. Reflecting now, I see how oblivious I was to the troubles that stirred in my family. My horse was my safe place, my way to find joy in the wonders of a summer day, even when home life was anything but peaceful. I envied my older sister, who seemed to live a different life altogether—one of glamorous trips, cherished gifts, and attention that cast her as the golden child. She was the smart, gifted one, thriving in school and held up as the one destined to go far.

I, on the other hand, was the one who struggled. Teachers often led me down to the basement of our little schoolhouse, patiently working with me to meet the simple social standard of looking people in the eye. In my own way, I longed to stand out, wishing my front teeth would fall out so I could sing "All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth" at the holiday program. Books became my refuge, filling my heart with adventures and worlds far beyond my own. Some of my fondest memories are the trips to the bookstore in Bozeman, where the scent of fresh pages and the twinkle of a bell as I walked in felt like stepping into another universe. I spent countless hours in the tiny library at my rural school, where every book promised a new journey.

H

ome on Norris Road was my sanctuary—a place of green walls, shaggy carpet, and the Holly Hobbie curtains over my window. In my little world, I listened to Smurfs on my record player, slept in a paper teepee I made in first grade, and played with my blue heeler, Peggy, who would meet me at the end of our road, sometimes proudly shaking a garter snake in her mouth. Those moments feel so vivid even now, like watching scenes from an old movie.

Our green barn was a hub of life, filled with my dad’s tools and memories of nights spent shooting hoops, dreaming of a future where I might become something. Along one wall were stalls where new foals sometimes arrived in the quiet of night—a place of beginnings, but also one of painful memories. Once, I recall my dad bringing us into the barn and punishing us without explanation. He drank heavily then, and I remember counting the beer cans stashed behind the seat of his truck. My sister recalls more of the darkness, the days of wearing hand-me-downs, of schoolyard whispers, and of our parents' fights that left a mark on us all.

Losing that childhood home felt like waking up from a dream, only to find the magic gone. We moved to a rental on River Road, and my dad eventually left, taking our dog with him before bringing her back after my mom intervened. I grew up in that house, even though I lost so much of the life I’d known before—the horse rides, the forts, the green barn, and the creek where I spent countless hours fishing with my grandpa. There, I got my first mountain bike, a new kind of freedom, but one I carried with a heavy heart, longing for the past.

Sometimes I still drive by that house. The green barn stands, a little weathered, but still there, a relic of those days. The pastures have changed, and the iron gates are gone, along with the dreams they once guarded. I’ve visited that place in my dreams, over and over, replaying those days as though they’ve etched themselves into the very fiber of who I am. And though some memories are harsh and others sweet, they are all part of the landscape of my heart, the unchangeable memories that shaped my childhood.