Chap­ter 1: My Ear­ly Home begins with mem­o­ries shaped in a peace­ful pas­ture, sur­round­ed by soft grass and the rhyth­mic hum of nature. At the heart of this place was a clean pond, bor­dered by rush­es and lilies, where the water sparkled in the sun and offered cool relief on warmer days. One end of the field lay near a fir grove, where birds gath­ered and shade stretched gen­er­ous­ly, while the oth­er opened toward our master’s house and a tilled field. In those ear­ly days, my world was small but complete—my moth­er, the grass under­foot, and the qui­et rhythm of the farm. At night, I would nes­tle beside her in the shel­ter, warmed by her body and lulled by her breath. Dur­ing the day, I stayed close, occa­sion­al­ly ven­tur­ing out to nib­ble grass or splash my hooves in the shal­low water.

As I grew, I was weaned and began graz­ing more often, allow­ing my moth­er to leave me dur­ing the day while she worked. I wasn’t alone in the field; six oth­er colts shared it with me, all near­ly my size though old­er and stronger. We became fast friends, chas­ing one anoth­er through the tall grass, chal­leng­ing each oth­er to games that test­ed our speed and strength. Some­times these games became rough, a flur­ry of fly­ing hooves and nipped ears, but it was the way young hors­es learned their place. Despite the occa­sion­al scuf­fle, we held no grudges—by sun­set, we’d rest side by side, tired from play. Each of us had our own per­son­al­i­ty: some bold and boast­ful, oth­ers qui­et and obser­vant. Among them, I often found myself watch­ing more than act­ing, curi­ous about what made each of us dif­fer­ent.

One sum­mer after­noon, while we were par­tic­u­lar­ly wild, my moth­er called me aside with a qui­et nick­er. Her tone was calm but firm, and as we stood under the shel­ter of the grove, she spoke words I’ve nev­er for­got­ten. She remind­ed me that although the oth­er colts were fun, I had a respon­si­bil­i­ty to be bet­ter. My lin­eage, she explained, was noble—my grand­fa­ther had raced at New­mar­ket, my father car­ried a proud name, and my grand­moth­er had been praised for her good sense and even tem­per. My moth­er her­self had nev­er bit­ten or kicked out of spite, and she hoped I’d fol­low that same path. Strength, she said, meant noth­ing with­out self-con­trol. A well-bred horse must have courage, yes, but also kind­ness, man­ners, and patience.

She told me that some colts grow up to be hard and mean, espe­cial­ly if they’re not guid­ed well. But I was to remem­ber who I was, no mat­ter where life would take me. Her words weren’t boast­ful, but full of pur­pose. They plant­ed some­thing deep in me—a desire to live up to her trust and the pride she felt in our blood­line. Look­ing back, that moment wasn’t just a les­son in behav­ior; it was the start of under­stand­ing who I want­ed to become. It shaped how I viewed the world, not just through instinct, but through the lens of prin­ci­ple. She believed that even ani­mals, when treat­ed well, could car­ry them­selves with dignity—and I want­ed to be wor­thy of that belief.

Though I didn’t ful­ly grasp every­thing at the time, I sensed the weight of her words and the depth of her love. In the weeks that fol­lowed, I noticed how she nev­er joined in when oth­ers grew unruly. Her calm­ness made oth­ers set­tle, her pres­ence enough to ease ten­sion. The humans seemed to rec­og­nize her grace too, treat­ing her with a qui­et respect. Watch­ing her inter­act with both hors­es and han­dlers showed me the pow­er of gen­tle­ness. And as I learned to car­ry myself with more care—mindful of my kicks, delib­er­ate in my steps—I felt clos­er to the kind of horse she envi­sioned. Even my play­mates noticed, adjust­ing slight­ly when I refused to join in the rough­est games.

This first chap­ter of my life was a time of secu­ri­ty, learn­ing, and sub­tle shap­ing. I had no wor­ries, no fears—just the com­fort of know­ing I was safe, val­ued, and taught with patience. The gen­tle rhythms of pas­ture life, the steady exam­ple of my moth­er, and the warmth of ear­ly days left a last­ing impres­sion. Though I could not have known what lay ahead, I was being pre­pared for it—quietly, steadi­ly, with lessons that would guide me through every hard­ship and kind­ness to come.