A Girl, Her Horse & a Love Like No Other

As a little girl, I always dreamed of having a horse of my own.

For as long as I can remember, I would ask my parents to make that dream a reality, promising them that I would be responsible, committed, and willing to take on everything that came with caring for a horse. They were never completely against the idea, but they wanted to be certain that this wasn't simply a childhood phase — that the excitement wouldn't fade once the novelty wore off, and that I truly understood what it meant to be responsible for another living being.

Years passed, but the dream never did.

Then, in 2017, at the age of 17, an opportunity appeared in the most unexpected way. I emailed the Singapore Turf Club to ask whether they had any racehorses that were retiring, perhaps because of age or injury, and in need of a new home.

What followed was a flurry of emails, conversations, appointments and trips to meet different horses. I arrived with my mind more or less made up. There was a beautiful, large chestnut gelding I had already fallen for, and I wasn't particularly interested in looking any further.

But one of my contacts insisted that I meet two other horses he thought might be better suited to me, based on my experience and what I was looking for.

And then I met him.

A seven-year-old grey gelding, with black markings and a little star on his forehead.

He was quieter than the chestnut I had fallen for. More reserved. He didn't immediately demand attention or draw you in. Instead, there was something calm about him — almost as though he was waiting for someone to take the time to understand him.

Perhaps it was his temperament. Perhaps it was the fact that he had already spent longer away from the track. Or perhaps, looking back now, there was simply something about him that I was meant to notice.

Whatever it was, I changed my mind.

And just like that, my dream came true.

Moving him from Singapore to Johor was an easy decision. As an ex-racehorse, he needed time, space and the freedom to simply learn how to be a horse again — to have access to large paddocks, to move freely, and to live a life that wasn't defined by racing.

Johor was close enough that I could visit three or four times a week, even while studying. At the time, I didn't realise how important those visits would become. They weren't simply training sessions. They were the beginning of a relationship.

I was a first-time horse owner with very little experience beyond riding lessons, and learning how to care for an ex-racehorse was challenging, to say the least.

He could be spooky during hand-walking and carried an enormous amount of pent-up energy. For the first few months, I didn't ride him at all. I initially had a trainer helping us, but it soon became clear that what he needed most wasn't more training.

He needed time.

Time to decompress. Time to trust. Time to understand that he was no longer a racehorse being asked to perform, but simply a horse who was allowed to exist without constantly being asked for something in return.

Then came another challenge.

A few months after moving to Johor, he developed severe rashes across his neck and shoulder. They wouldn't go away. We consulted vets, sought advice from people in the industry, tried different approaches and treatments — and still couldn't figure out what was causing them.

For almost a year and a half, he was uncomfortable and constantly itchy.

It affected everything. Training became difficult because he couldn't focus. And how could I expect him to? When you're constantly uncomfortable, the last thing you want to do is concentrate on a training session.

Eventually, someone suggested that he might be having an allergic reaction to the sawdust being used in his stable.

It was one of many lessons I had to learn along the way.

Owning a horse taught me that loving an animal isn't simply about the beautiful moments. It's about paying attention to the details — learning their habits, their quirks, their sensitivities, their fears and the subtle changes in their behaviour that only someone who knows them intimately would notice.

Over time, you learn to speak a language that doesn't require words.

Then COVID came.

With borders closed, the distance between us suddenly felt much greater. I couldn't visit him. I couldn't ride him. I couldn't spend those ordinary afternoons together that I had once taken for granted.

I'm sure the separation affected him too, so once again, we adapted. He was moved to a stable in Kuala Lumpur for the remainder of the pandemic, where we waited for the world to open again.

It was another reminder that having an animal is a commitment that doesn't pause simply because life becomes inconvenient.

Today, almost a decade after we first met, he is nearly 15 years old and thriving.

He is back in Johor, at the stable where he knows the people, the surroundings and the rhythm of his life. He is older now, wiser in many ways, and so am I.

I have since relocated to Europe, which means our relationship looks very different from what it once did. I can no longer simply drive across the border whenever I want to see him.

But the promise I made to him has never changed.

At least every three months, I make the journey back to Singapore, cross the border into Johor, and spend time with him. When the opportunity allows, I train with him too.

It isn't always easy.

Each time I return, there is often a little catching up to do. We have to rebuild the rhythm we once had, and I can see how his behaviour has changed over the years. Time and distance take their toll in ways you don't always anticipate.

But I wouldn't have it any other way.

Because he isn't simply the horse I bought when I was young.

He was the first horse who taught me what it truly means to be responsible for another life. He taught me patience when I wanted progress, compassion when I wanted results, and — perhaps most importantly — that sometimes the best thing you can do for an animal is to slow down and listen to what they are telling you.

Nearly ten years later, I still look at him and feel incredibly lucky that our paths crossed.

I often think about that little girl who kept asking her parents for a horse, promising that she would take care of it. She had no idea what that promise would eventually mean — the lessons, the sacrifices, the distance, the uncertainty, the countless journeys back and forth.

But she kept her word.

Every day, I am grateful that I was given the chance to meet him, to grow alongside him, and to be a small part of his life.

Because committing to an animal means being there not only when it's easy, but through the difficult days, the distance, and the years.

Almost a decade later, I know that we haven't simply grown older together — we've grown alongside one another, and for that I will be eternally grateful.