Two sets of eyes stare up from the page. One of them is my own, or at least the 13-year-old version of me. The other set belongs to a pony who is surely long dead, preserved only in memory and countless photographs pasted into albums or stuffed into books. I still find them from time to time, tucked away in long-forgotten novels. In this particular photograph, my arm is thrown around the pony’s neck and I am beaming up at the camera. Her white coat, a shade known as flea-bitten gray, glistens in the sunlight. There is a white, fourth-place ribbon clipped to her bridle. Pixie and I never found much success in the show ring, but it wasn’t about the ribbons. For me, the victory was being able to ride at all.

I brush my finger across the thin layer of plastic that covers the picture, feeling the softness of her coat beneath my hand. I can still hear her high-pitched whinny, the clang of her hoof striking the ground while she begs for a treat. My mother said someone had probably tried to teach her to bow, but only got as far as teaching her to raise one foreleg. For Pixie, I must’ve been one in a stream of little girls, just another stop before she moved on. Such is the life of a show pony—loved for a time, before being replaced by a larger pony, or perhaps a horse.

For me, Pixie will always stand alone. She never knew how much it meant to me and my family, the lives she restored. She was just doing her job. She didn’t know why my coordination and balance were so bad, or why some days it seemed like I would slip right out of the saddle. My horseback riding skills improved during our time together, but not as much as they should have. Years later, my mother would say that my progress plateaued after I got sick. She also admitted that at one point during my illness, she wasn’t sure if I would be able to walk again.

The first symptoms appeared in late June or early July. It wasn’t much—poor hand-eye coordination when I played catch with my family, jerky handwriting, and a slight slurring in my speech that grew worse over time. My mother, a doctor, was the first to notice. I didn’t believe that anything was wrong until we took a weeklong vacation over the 4^th of July. I had been looking forward to riding again after we got back, but it was like my body wasn’t working. Everything was off—the way my muscles gripped the saddle, how I sat on my pony, and the coordination between my legs and hands when giving commands. From there, my condition deteriorated rapidly.

I was only housebound for a few months, but it felt much longer, which wasn’t surprising given I that could barely walk without holding onto the furniture or the walls. Some days, I couldn’t even sit up. I couldn’t read—always a favorite activity—because my eyes were unable to focus on the text. The illness sapped my energy, my strength. Every moment became something to endure—the endless banality of lying on a couch while the same movies repeated over and over again, the desperate refrain “I’ll be better tomorrow” fading to a whisper.

The illness destroyed my motor skills, balance, and coordination. The doctors eventually settled on a diagnosis: acute cerebellar ataxia. My case was atypical. It usually struck children around the age of two or three, not ten. The progression of my illness and some of the symptoms didn’t fit the established pattern. Even the diagnosis they gave me was a description of symptoms, not causes. No one could tell me why. No one could tell me when I would get better, or if I would.

All I wanted was to ride again. The thought of my first pony, and the memory of our rides together, it was all that kept me going, the only reason I never gave up. Prince and I were a good team. Even after missing half the show season due to my illness, we still won first and second place overall in our division. I was proud of our success, of the armfuls of ribbons we won at every show. More than the shows, though, I loved being with him—grooming him, feeding him carrots, taking him out to graze after lessons, and the simple joys of being in that saddle. He used to wait for me in his stall. He knew the sound of my steps and was always ready to greet me with a whicker and pricked ears, bobbing his head as though to encourage me to move faster while I opened the door.

Those memories were what I clung to when I spent my 11th birthday in the hospital and my father ate my lunch to get me discharged; when my parents had to help me to and from the bathroom because I couldn’t do it on my own; when the doctors stuck needles in my veins because they had “just one more test” they wanted to run. It got to the point where my mother started storing tubes of my blood in the refrigerator so that she wouldn’t have to take me in the next time they called.

I wanted to go back to school so badly, but when the school year started, I didn’t even ask. We all knew I wasn’t well enough to go back. Instead, I got angry. My father finally called me out on it because I was being horrible to my mother. Yelling, snapping, and being nasty. My father asked me what was wrong, and I told him the doctors had lied, that I was supposed to better. My pediatric neurologist had predicted that I would be able to start school in the fall along with the rest of my class. My mother hadn’t made this prediction, but as a doctor, to me, she was as guilty as the rest of them. My father sat down and we talked about it, and we decided on a new goal: for me to be back in school by Thanksgiving.

Life dragged on, with good days and bad days. The progression of my illness had been swift, while my recovery was slow and halting. Apparent gains appeared one day only to disappear the next. There were many small triumphs. Sitting up in a bean bag chair for part of the day, and then graduating to an actual chair. Walking without holding on to the furniture and walls. Picking up a book and being able to read. Managing to scratch out something barely legible with a pen. It still wasn’t my life as I had come to know it, but it was beginning to resemble something I recognized.

The first victory was with Prince. It was about five months after I got sick, a crisp day in November. I didn’t know if I would be able to ride, but I was determined to try. Looking back, I don’t know how my parents allowed it. Letting their child, who was still unsteady on her feet, get on a horse? Maybe they knew how much I needed it, even if it wasn’t safe for me to ride him. Not anymore. Prince was spooky, shying away from standard, everyday objects. A white coffee cup tucked between decorative red flowers on top of a jump became a terrifying monster in his eyes, as did a girth that had been left hanging on a stool. Even the shadows were suspect. Before my illness, I’d fallen off a few times as a result of his antics, something my parents wouldn’t risk now.

I was more excited than nervous when we crested the final hill leading up to our barn. My trainer rented a stable from a larger horse-breeding farm. The driveway meandered past small barns and pastures full of grazing horses. Other horses and riders thundered past in the outdoor arena. I’d been here a few times over the past several months, but not as often as I would like. My parents offered, but car rides made me nauseous, so I made excuses to avoid visiting my pony and other friends at the barn. Those days were over. I was back in school, and I was finally going to ride.

My mother parked the car. Her hands tightened on the wheel. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“Of course. Come on.” I threw open the door and hurried into the barn. The mingled scent of horse, sweat, and hay filled my nose. I had missed this place.

Everything looked the same—the concrete floor, the row of white stalls on either side of the aisle. A horse stood in crossties, blocking my path. I stepped to the side and patted the horse while I walked by. One of the grooms greeted me in Spanish before returning to his work. I headed into the tack room and opened our trunk, pulling out my riding boots and hard hat. It didn’t take me long to get ready, despite how often I was derailed by other riders welcoming me back. Even Eli, the orange-and-white barn cat, seemed happy to see me. He rubbed against my legs, and I took a moment to stroke his back.

I headed into one of the side aisles and found my pony. Prince had already been groomed and tacked up. He pricked his ears and nickered when he saw me. His black mane draped over the left side of his neck. Dark eyes sparkled in a face marked with a white star, a stripe, and a snip. His brown coat had darkened as he furred up in preparation for winter.

“Hey, boy, how are you doing? Did you miss me? I missed you.” I ran my hands over his face and neck, rubbing his fur. Then I freed him from the crossties and led him outside.

The breeze played against my skin. I was comforted by the steady clop-clop of his feet behind me.

My mother waited for us at the ring. She opened the gate before us, and I led Prince inside.

“I’ll take care of it,” my mother said. She took Prince’s reins and tightened the girth, the strap around his belly.

I took my place at the mounting block. My mother handed the reins off to one of the assistant trainers, who led Prince forward and positioned him next to the mounting block. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the reins and threw my leg over the saddle. It was the moment I’d been waiting for—everything I’d wanted since becoming housebound.

That first ride was short. It was nothing like riding used to be. We were confined to a walk, with one person leading Prince and another at my side to make sure I didn’t fall off. It wasn’t what I had pictured, but it was enough.

Given his spookiness and the lingering effects of my illness, Prince and I were incapable of being the team we once were. My parents knew it, and so did I. They told me they wanted to find me a new pony, someone I could show during the upcoming season. I didn’t object. I wanted my life back. I wanted everything to be normal again, to go back to the way it used to be, and I saw a new pony as a way of achieving that.

Pixie and I met for the first time over winter break. She was adorable, standing there in the aisle, almost as if she was waiting for me. Her nose was so soft. She sniffed my palm, her fur rubbing against my skin. She was smaller than Prince. More delicate. I had just aged out of Short Stirrup, and being on Pixie meant I would be eligible for Medium Pony. If I remained on Prince, who was one inch shy of being classified as a horse, we would be competing in the Large Pony division, facing 3-foot high jumps—a height I had never attempted and lacked the skill to accomplish.

“What do you think?” my trainer asked, gesturing toward the gray pony standing in crossties in the aisle.

The pony pricked her ears and regarded me with deep, liquid-black eyes.

My trainer had just come back from a trip to another barn with two ponies—one for a girl I rode with, and this one for me. I wished my mother was here to help me evaluate Pixie, but for once, I was at the barn alone. For Christmas, my brother had received tickets to the Rose Bowl to watch the University of Michigan. My mother was with him in California, meaning that my father had driven me to the barn—the father who was deathly allergic to horses.

“She’s cute.”

“I’ll meet you in the arena,” my trainer said, pausing outside her office. “Go ahead and give her a try. Don’t let anyone get too close behind you—she kicks.”

I stepped forward and stroked Pixie’s forehead. I released her from the crossties and removed her halter, hanging it on a nearby peg. Her hooves clomped behind me while I led her into the indoor ring. A few other riders were exercising their horses.

I tightened Pixie’s girth and used the mounting block to swing into the saddle. I walked her in wide circles around the ring, adjusting to her gait. It felt strange to be on someone other than Prince, who my parents had allowed me to ride while they searched for a new pony. My trainer still hadn’t arrived, but we’d warmed up for long enough. I urged Pixie into a trot and bounced all over the saddle. In vain, I struggled to post, rising and falling to match her gait, but her trot was too rough. Her steps jolted me from the saddle. I couldn’t do anything but bounce helplessly on her back. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I didn’t know how I would ever manage to ride her, not when I couldn’t even handle a trot. I finally urged into a canter and relaxed into that smoother gait. She was responsive, turning at the slightest pressure on her reins.

By this point, my trainer had joined us. At her direction, I took Pixie over a few small fences. She was a pleasant ride, apart from her trot, and my trainer thought we were a good match. She told me that we should continue the evaluation trial period and wait for my mother to get home before making a final decision. After the ride, I fussed over Pixie, petting her and plying her with carrots. Then I headed into one of the side aisles where Prince lived. He could smell her on me, but he didn’t know what it meant. Within a few short months, he would be gone, and she would take his place.

Pixie gave me back the freedom I had lost. When I was in that saddle, I could do all the things I used to, albeit not quite as well. She allowed me to forget, at least for a little while. On her, I wasn’t the weird kid with padding on my chair, extended test time, and waivers from activities like gym. I wasn’t the weird kid who walked around offending everyone because the illness had robbed me of my ability to read social cues—an effect that lasted for about a decade. On her, none of that mattered. We competed, bounding over jumps and winning the occasional ribbon. We took lessons and went trail riding with my mother. Staring out over those empty fields, it seemed as though we were the only ones left in the world. When I no longer trusted myself, I could believe in her.

The first horse show I did with Pixie was in the winter, probably sometime in February or March. From an awards standpoint, it was not a successful weekend. We placed sixth in a few classes. For this show, we weren’t in our usual division. When everyone gathered before the flat class, we were surrounded by other girls on tall, dark horses. There were really too many horses to be in the ring at once, but I guess the judges didn’t want to delay the show by splitting us up into sections. I managed to keep Pixie out of trouble until they called for us to canter. There were horses between us and the rail, and horses in front of us and behind us. We had nowhere to go. Pixie was getting antsy beneath me, and I worried that she might kick.

I did the only thing I thought I could, which was to cut across the center of the ring and join the throng of horses on the other side. It did not end well. For decoration, show management had placed pine trees on the sides of the jumps. These jumps were broken down before the flat class to provide room along the rail, but they still dotted the arena. There wasn’t enough room for the maneuver I was attempting, and Pixie and I brushed up against one of the trees. She bucked, dislodging me from the saddle. The announcer called everyone back to a walk, which gave me time to climb back up and reclaim my stirrups. It took longer than it should have to regain my balance, something that never would’ve happened before I got sick. The show didn’t matter, but what it meant did. That was when I knew everything would be okay.

By the end of our four-year partnership, I didn’t need her anymore. It’s the true mark of helping someone that at the end they don’t need you. There was no goodbye, no way to tell her it was over, before they led her away. I like to think she would’ve remembered me, had we ever met again. I’ll never know now. Pixie was 20 when we parted. Most horses don’t live for more than 25 to 30 years, and it has been nearly that long since I last saw her. Pixie is gone.

I close the photo album. My hand lingers on its worn cover. I can still feel her, that 11-year-old version of me, reaching through the pages, grasping for reassurance, for answers no one can provide. Her hand settles on the velvety softness of a pony’s nose. The girl I was smiles. With a final swish of Pixie’s tail, the figures fade back into memory, leaving only the lingering warmth of her breath on my skin.

Allison Oesterle lives in Los Angeles, works in marketing, and owns one very spoiled dog. She normally writes science fiction and fantasy. She hopes her work speaks to the duality of serious or chronic illness—it is both an intensely personal and universal experience because almost everyone will someday struggle with poor health. At the time of the events recounted here, she rode with Katie Kappler of Kappler Farms in Barrington, IL, now of Katie Kappler LLC.