Standing Beside Tate: A Week I Will Never Forget

This past week has taken a piece of my heart, and I’m still trying to find the words for it. I want to write this down not just for myself, but for Deanna, and for Tate, because some moments deserve to be witnessed twice—once when they happen, and again when we’re brave enough to put them on paper.

I met Deanna through a mutual friend. We’re the same age, share similar interests, and she’s one of those people who carries a kind of bright, contagious energy that just makes you feel good to be around her. Last summer she invited me to her place to ride together. It was one of those simple, easy days that makes you grateful for horses and women who understand them. Most of our friendship since then has lived in the digital world—likes, comments, messages that bridge the miles.

A few weeks ago, though, I started noticing a shift in her posts. A heaviness. A quiet unraveling. It became clear she was going through a divorce. She was suddenly having to make big decisions in rapid succession, the kind that knock the breath out of you and force you to hold yourself together in ways no one ever prepares you for.

And I did nothing.

Not because I didn’t care. I cared too much. But I assumed she had a deep bench of people in her corner, and I didn’t want to step into something that wasn’t mine to step into. So I stayed quiet. I waited.

Then I saw her post about Tate in the vet hospital—right after she had already made the heartbreaking decision to put her older pony to sleep. I cried in bed that night. I told Jared I needed to reach out, needed to make sure she wasn’t going through this alone. When I called her and gently asked, “Are you by yourself?” she broke. And I heard something in her voice that I recognized instantly from my own darkest days: the kind of loneliness that feels like it could swallow you whole.

“I’m here,” I told her. “You’re not doing this alone. Not now. Not ever.”

We made a plan. If Tate pulled through, we would bring him here to The Fox & Crow Farm where he could have a medical stall, deep bedding, constant care, and the comfort of other horses nearby. Jared didn’t even hesitate—he started planning the fence line, the paddock layout, everything Tate would need to heal. We bought bedding, set up cameras, and prepared our barn the way you prepare your home for someone important. Because he was important.

Yesterday, I drove to the medical barn to meet Deanna and Tate, and everything in me knew. Tate wasn’t well. He was in pain that couldn’t be reasoned with—nostrils flared, head low, constantly looking at his belly for a relief that didn’t come. He wasn’t eating. He couldn’t get comfortable. And the worst part was watching Deanna search our faces for answers, hoping someone would say the words she didn’t want but desperately needed to hear.

No one wants to be the one to say it: It’s time.

But she knew. And when she said it out loud, the world seemed to pause.

I stayed with her for everything. We took short walks around the property to ease his pain. I held her when her voice cracked. I took dozens of photos—moments she will cherish later, when the pain isn’t so sharp it cuts her breath.

When the vet administered the final sedative, it hit me harder than I expected. Suddenly I was back in the hospital with Penny, back in that moment where I wanted to scream at the vet to stop, to wait, to let me have just one more minute. Watching Deanna whisper, “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” was like hearing my own heart speak.

And then Tate laid down gently, like he was simply tired of fighting. One last breath, one final release, and he was gone.

The day had been dark and grey, the kind of cold that carries warning. But at the exact moment he passed, the clouds parted. A thin slice of sunset broke through—this brief, impossible gift of gold across the sky. And then, just as quickly, the wind picked up and a snow squall swept across the property like a curtain on the final scene. Fierce. Sudden. Poetic.

Thirty minutes later, the supermoon—the Cold Moon—rose over the horizon. Brilliant and enormous. A lantern for his journey home.

By the time I got into my truck, I was spent. Completely hollowed out. I cried the whole drive home. I cried for Tate, for Deanna, for the loneliness she has had to face this year, and for every horse we’ve ever had to let go. When I finally walked through my door, I fell apart in Jared’s arms. He held me tight and thanked me for being a good person, for standing beside her when she needed someone the most.

He’s right. She needed me. And I couldn’t bear the thought of her standing in that moment alone.

I didn’t know Tate well, but I loved him. He was beautiful—smaller in build, uniquely marked, with a gentle sincerity in his presence. Horses like him leave an imprint on a person, and he certainly left one on her.

Today I’m editing the photos from yesterday and the tears come in waves. I hugged my three horses tighter than usual last night and again this morning. I thanked Jared for supporting this life we’ve built—one that revolves around these animals who become our anchors, our teachers, our heartbreaks, and our healing.

Losing a horse splits your life into before and after. I know my time with my own horses is limited. I know these goodbyes will come again. And I know, without question, that when they do, I will lean on the people who show up—just like the women, Deb and Nikki, who showed up for me when I had to let Penny go.

I tried to send Deb home that day, insisting I would be fine. She looked me dead in the eye and said, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going with you.” And she did. Both she and Nikki stayed with me every minute—through the hospital, and the morning Penny took her last breath.

I will never forget that kindness. And I will never stop repaying it.

Yesterday was my chance to pay it forward.

Rest in peace, sweet Tate. Thank you for loving Deanna with your whole heart. And thank you for reminding the rest of us that the bond between a woman and her horse is not just real—it’s sacred.