25/06/2025
A Birthday Tribute to âRay of Hopeâ
From Royal Bloodlines to Real Belonging
He was born in Germany, sculpted from greatness.
A noble Oldenburg, stamped with regal bloodlines, he passed his stallion selection with easeâŚpower, grace, intelligence, presence. By eight years old, he was showing at the Grand Prix level, executing the movements with jaw-dropping brilliance.
Every extension, every pirouette, every one tempi was close to perfection. At least on the outside. However, on the inside, something was breaking.
The intensity of training, the isolation, the relentless demand to performâŚit overpowered his sensitive spirit. He wanted to be good. He was always a good boy. But the stress ignited chronic stomach ulcers, occasional bouts of colic and a slow collapse of his will. His body bore the scars of submission. His soul bore the deeper wounds of betrayal.
Still, he gave every ounce of energy to each performance.
And then a buyer from the U.S. offered a price too high to resist. They gelded him, took the money, and sent him across the oceanâŚstripped of everything that defined him.
His new owner had a larger bank account than heart. She wanted a ribbon machine, not a relationship. Within months, the once-majestic athlete had become what they labeled rouge.
Biting. Striking. Rearing. Kicking. Bucking
There was no turn out in green pastures for him, he was too "valuable" to risk injury, too âviciousâ to move to and from his stall. The hatred between horse and human grew, until it became unbearable.
Thatâs when I met him.
He was just a plain bay standing in the aisle of a prestigious Los Angeles show barn where Bentleys lined the parking lot and lawsuits hung in the air like flies.
He was cross tied, hobbled, and muzzled just to tack up. Multiple handlers were required for his owner to mount him.
But in the arena when he moved, in full dressage tack, the ordinary evaporated. He transformed into something transcendent.
And yet, he had come to hate his job. He knew what was expected of him and resented it with every fiber of his being. His eyes held a fury toward everyone, everything.
The trainer warned me: heâs broken. Heâs bitter. Heâs dangerous. Heâs beyond help.
They were discussing euthanasia as he would not even load onto a trailer and was blacklisted from all show grounds due to his unmanageable behaviors.
Then the trainer remembered I rode dressage and now ran a sanctuary. A nonprofit could offer a tax write-off. No one else would take on a high dollar horse with a six-alarm temperament.
I hesitated. How would I keep the other horses safe? He had been a stallion. Heâd never known turnout, herd life, or peace. When accepting a horse for the Sanctuary, I have to see or hear a sign, that indicates that horses is destined to come to the Sanctuary. Everything about him was a blazing neon sign that said âdo not accept this horseâ⌠But then⌠I heard his name:
Ray of Hope.
I got chills that ran up the back of my neck. In that surreal moment I received the sign, and against all better intellectual judgment, I said yes. Not because I thought I could rehab him, but because I believed he deserved a chance to just be a horse. To exist without expectation. To choose something else rather than what was chosen for him.
A few weeks later, after the paperwork, the legalities, the appraisals, the deal was complete⌠all for a horse no one wanted, except as a tax write off.
I drove to LA. I asked everyone to leave the barn when it was time to meet him.
Horses smell and feel FearâŚ
Fear contaminates the energy, and this horse had known enough of that already from all the people at the barn that were terrified to work with him. They anticipated I was in for a big fight.
When I approached, he lunged at the stall bars. I stood there. Still.
I offered my hand.
He snorted, circled and then came forward.
I gave him a carrotâŚnot my usual tactic, but that day, I needed an olive branch.
And then, I did the most important thing of all.
I apologized to him.
For the years of abuse.
For the loss of his freedom, his voice, his body.
For what we humans had done to a brilliant, trusting creature who only ever wanted to do right.
I told him I wasnât here to take anything from him. I was here to ask if he would come with meâŚto a different kind of place.
A place where he could heal.
Where he would never again be forced.
Where he might find friends if that was of interest.
A place where humans would earn his trust..
However, I had one request:
âPlease choose to load on the trailerâ.
We stood for 1/2 hour by the trailer which I parked a distance from the chaos of the facility.
I didnât rush him. He grazed. Asked for
another carrot. And thenâŚhe chose to
quietly, willingly, without drugs, without
chains or a whip to walk on my trailer. He instinctively knew that his survival depended on that choice. And he was right.
He left behind the prestige, the pedigree, the pressures of performance. And came to a ranch nestled in the Ojai valley called The Equine Sanctuary. A place filled with other horses just like himâŚsome not as famous, but who had been every bit as heartbroken when they arrived.
This place was now home. And slowly, his rage gentled. His eyes softened. His nervous system learned the meaning of safety and peace for the first time.
Here, healing of the soul begins for everyone who steps through the gates, whether on two or four legs.
Here, pasts are acknowledged, but not allowed to define.
Here, freedom is granted not as a reward, but as a right.
And eventually, all who arrive are asked the same thing:
Will you choose life? This lifeâŚthis new one in the present moment?
Will you allow healing, let go of your past and return to your true self?
Very slowly, and rightfully soâŚhe said yes and he transformed.
He learned to live in quiet nobility among his small herd. And his two best friends? Both retired Thoroughbred racehorses. A grandson of the legendary Secretariat and the other a grandson of Triple Crown winner Seattle Slew.
All three born from royalty. All three gave everything in their careers. All three living not in the glow of ribbons or their famous bloodlines, but in the glow of grace.
There is no pretense.
Just pasture, healing, kindness and truth.
Grooming each other in the shade of ancient oaks.
Galloping in the wind like young colts again.
They have shared their stories with the humans who come to find peace, healing, and hope.
And in doing so they heal us, too.
Happy Birthday, Ray of Hope.
You were born for greatness, but not the kind they tried to force on you.
You were born A survivor.
You became: A teacher and a symbol of grace and mercy reclaimed.
And today, we honor every part of your journeyâŚ
Not just where you came from,
But who youâve chosen to become.
You are, and always will beâŚOur Ray of Hope.
