As long as the ground isn’t frozen, it might not hurt.

The old saying slipped from her lips almost without thinking—half a joke, half a reminder, and maybe a little bit of a prayer.

“As long as the ground isn’t frozen, it might not hurt,” she murmured as she swung her leg over the fence. Her boots hit the winter-stiff dirt with a dull thud, and she winced—not from pain, but from memory. She’d grown up hearing that phrase from her grandfather whenever she fell off a horse, tripped over a hay bale, or took one of the clumsy tumbles that come free with ranch life.

Back then, it always made her laugh.
Now, at twenty-seven, trudging through a wind-bitten pasture in Kansas, it felt heavier.
Truer.
More complicated.

The sky above was muted silver, the kind that promised snow but never delivered, and the world felt quiet enough to hear her own heartbeat. Ahead, her mare Daisy stood patiently, breath rising in soft clouds, waiting for her with the kind of loyalty only horses seem to understand.

She approached, rubbing Daisy’s warm neck, letting herself lean in just a little longer than usual. Daisy had been there for every heartbreak, every lonely morning, every night that she cried without needing to explain why.

“Hey, girl,” she whispered.
Daisy flicked an ear, as if answering, I’m here. I always am.

She tightened the cinch, pulled on her gloves, and climbed into the saddle. The cold air stung her cheeks as they started forward—slow at first, then faster, hooves pounding rhythmically against the soil that was still soft enough to carry her weight.

As long as the ground isn’t frozen, it might not hurt.

The phrase echoed again, but this time it meant something different.

It meant: Keep going.
It meant: You’re still standing.
It meant: Even if life has thrown you hard, you haven’t hit the unyielding ground yet—not fully—not today.

She guided Daisy toward the ridge where the land dipped into a quiet valley. From up there, she could see the whole horizon, stretching endlessly in every direction—empty but full at the same time. It made her feel small, but in a comforting way. Like her struggles had room to breathe out here.

She finally brought Daisy to a stop.
Snowflakes—small and hesitant—started to fall.

She took a deep breath, letting the cold settle into her lungs, letting the truth settle into her heart.

Life hurts sometimes.
Losing people hurts.
Letting go hurts.
Trying again hurts.

But as she looked out at the land she loved—the horses, the sky, the steady heartbeat of the earth beneath her—it didn’t feel unbearable.

Not today.
Not with Daisy beneath her.
Not with the ground still soft, still forgiving.

She smiled to herself.

“Yeah… as long as the ground isn’t frozen,” she said softly, “I’ll be okay.”

And in that quiet winter moment, she believed it.