Lady

I was called Elegant Lady once, bright, fast, valuable. Now they call me Lady and here at Springwood, amongst my herd, I am finally allowed to just be.

I have lived long enough to remember everything: the thunder of hooves, the sharp pull of reins, the quiet dread of being exploited, over and over. And not just to run but to produce more horses for the industry. And then, each time, they were gone.

Taken from me.

I carried my foals beneath my heart, felt them move, spoke to them in soft breaths before they ever saw the world. And then, each time, they were gone too soon. No time to teach them the wind, no time to show them kindness – only the hollow ache of absence. 

All of my babies were sent to race as I was, pushed until their bodies broke; most are gone now, their stories ended in pain. One of my sons still runs somewhere, still owned, still trapped in the same cycle I survived. I am safe, yes – but what does safety mean when your children are not?

I am gentle, they say. Wise. But my wisdom is carved from grief. I ask you, as someone who has lived this life: please see us not as property, not as profit, but as mothers, as souls. End this suffering. End horse racing – for me, for my lost foals, and for those still waiting to be free. 

My name is Lady. I am someone. 

Main image: Georgina Weston Photography