Born in the Night: On Horses, Hope, and What Arrives Gently

Last night, while most of us were sleeping, something ancient and beautiful stepped into the world.

A colt.Warlander. Strong Friesian lines through his mother. Iberian fire somewhere in his future. He was born to one of my closest friends, a soul who loves her horses the way I understand best: with depth, devotion, and that fierce gentleness you don’t often see in the world.

Foals always undo me a little. There’s something so raw about them; legs too long, eyes too wise. New and wobbly and yet already carrying the stories of generations in their skin.

This one feels special. Maybe it’s because he arrived in the quiet hours. Perhaps it’s because he’s a Warlander, born from two lineages I respect so deeply, known for grace and strength and presence. Maybe it’s because he’s come at a time when so much of the world feels uncertain, and birth always feels like a kind of soft rebellion against despair.

In therapy, we speak of beginnings, too. Of things being born in the dark. Of healing that comes not with fanfare, but with quiet unfolding. Sometimes the transformation doesn’t roar in—it arrives like this. In a straw bed. In moonlight. With the steady breath of a mother who’s done this before.

This colt doesn’t know yet what he’s stepped into. How loved he already is. How many hearts stirred at the news of his first breath?

But I do.

And today, I’m holding that close, the reminder that life still begins. That newness still finds us. That even in these strange, fractured times, something strong and sacred still walks in on four legs and a trembling body and says: I’m here.

Welcome to the world, little one.

With love and soft breaths of awe,

Sarah