Broncs & Boys.
Out here, love don’t ride easy. It’s not soft or slow or simple. It kicks, bucks, and leaves you breathless. Living on the trail has a way of bringing it all to the surface—memories you tried to outrun, words you wish you’d never heard, and feelings that settle in your chest like smoke that won’t clear. The land doesn’t care who broke your heart, it just keeps stretching on—unbothered, untouched, unchanging. And maybe that’s why I trust it more than most people. Because no matter what you’re carrying, the land makes room for it. There’s something about riding through country so wide and wild that makes your heart grown louder. Especially when it’s broken. A broken heart comes in strong with the wind, wild-eyed and huffing, screaming every memory you’ve tried to forget. Heartbreak doesn’t care if you’ve had a long day on the trail—she shows up loud, messy, and mad as hell. She’ll try to knock you off your horse or make your judgment cloudy when crossing rocky hills. Out here there’s no hiding from the aches in your chest, heartbreak keeps pace no matter how fast you ride. And even though she ain’t actually talking, she’s the loudest thing in this country.
You’d think that maybe the miles would help you forget, that the sound of hooves on dirt and the creak of saddle leather would drown out the sound of pride crumbling to bits. But heartbreak has got a way of making herself known. Somewhere between the river crossings and ridge lines, I started to feel it sink in—how heavy it is to still be holding on to something you know you should just let go. Like the sound of bells getting farther and farther away, or a shift in the weather you didn’t see coming until your bones start aching from the cold. It starts slow and leaves even slower. But I’ve got better things to think about, so I try to distract myself. But in the hills all that’s left is the wind and the weight of remembering. I reckon the hardest part of love isn’t the leaving. It’s the holding on long after the grip’s gone cold. When you’re still gripping the reins, knuckles white, trying to steer something that’s already gone lame under you. You keep telling yourself if you just ride it out a little longer, things might feel right again. But deep down, you know. And damn does that sting. The pain sticks around and I find it everywhere. It’s in the way I pour my coffee too slow. In the silence that follows campfire stories. In the way I talk to my horse just to fill the space. It lingers, like smoke in your clothes. Like dust in your lungs.
I’ve come to realize that breakups are a lot like breaking horses. At first, there’s fire—wild eyes, high heads, and a whole lot of fight. You tell yourself you can handle it, that if you just hold on long enough, they’ll come around. You saddle up with hope, grip tight with shaky hands, and pray today’s the day it gets easier. But some broncs just aren’t meant to be gentled. Just like some boys ain’t meant to stay. You see the signs—you feel it in the way they flinch, the way they pull back just when you think they’re settling in. One minute you’re riding high, thinking you’ve earned their trust, and the next, you’re flat on your back with dust in your teeth and that hollow ache in your ribs where love used to sit. And still… you climb back on. That’s the worst part, isn’t it? Knowing it might hurt, but doing it anyway. Believing that maybe this time, they’ll choose you. Maybe this time, they won’t buck. But just like with a bronc that won’t break, you’ve got to learn when it’s time to let go of the reins. Doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re strong enough to walk away before you lose yourself in the wreck. ’Cause truth is—heartbreak and wild horses both leave a mark. But you’ll heal. You’ll dust yourself off, swing your leg over a new bronc, and ride again.
I’ve seen enough shit out here to know that when something’s worth it—when I love it. The hardest part is knowing when to hold on, when to bail, or when to saddle up and ride away. I’ve been the girl who stayed too long. The one who gave up too quick. The one who begged to be loved. And I’ve regretted all of it because in the end, I was the only one still bleeding. The difference between boys and broncs is simple—when a bronc throws you, at least you saw it coming. You felt the tension in his back, the fire in his belly, the storm building with every step. He won’t lie. A bronc is honest in his chaos. But a boy? He’ll ride easy for a while, let you believe you’re safe, make you think you’ve got something solid—then drop you without warning. A bronc bucks out of fear, out of instinct. A boy walks away just because he can. This time, I know I held on longer than I should’ve. I got dragged behind my saddle. And heartbreak sat there and laughed—she cheered as I broke. I bent myself quiet, tried to be softer, easier to keep. I kept showing up, heart wide open, only to find I was riding alone. You can’t ride for two when the other’s already off the horse. That’s when the doubt creeps in. Makes you question the parts of yourself that weren’t enough. Makes you wonder if maybe girls like you—messy, stubborn, a little too cold from the storms they’ve weathered—just weren’t meant for lasting love. It doesn’t matter how much heart you give. Some people leave anyway. And you’re left there—reins in hand, heart still pounding—watching the dust settle over a place you once called home.
There’s a breaking point that we all hit. With a bronc, it’s that second your grip slips, your boot misses the stirrup, and the ground rises up to meet you. It’s sharp, sudden, and honest. But with boys, the breaking point comes slow. It creeps in on quiet nights when they stop asking how your day was, or when their touch starts to feel more like a habit than a want. It builds in the silence between “I love you” and the look that says they don’t mean it anymore. Then I feel myself shrinking. It’s my breaking point. When I start holding back my wild. I hush my heart, stop asking questions, and convince myself that loving is worth the hurt. That’s when I know I’ve stayed too long. A bronc might bruise your body, but a boy who doesn’t love you right will bruise your spirit if you let him. And I’ve learned—I’d rather hit the dirt from a hard ride than break slowly in someone else’s silence.
But no matter what I’m feeling inside, the trail don’t stop for broken hearts. There’s always another mile, another mountain pass, another night to set up camp. That’s the thing about this life, it teaches you to keep moving. Even when you’re hurting. Even when your chest feels hollow and your hands don’t feel strong anymore. You just put your head down and work through the pain. But here’s the part I’m still learning: letting go isn’t giving up. It’s strength in its rawest, most painful form. It’s turning your horse back toward camp with dust in your eyes. Sometimes strength looks like walking away. Sometimes, it’s crying under the stars and packing out the next morning. It’s choosing yourself, even when your heart still wants to choose them.
Even when it hurts you wake up and saddle up anyway. You let the land hold your sadness without needing it to fix you. The wind moves through the canyons like it’s seen every kind of heartache and still chooses to sing. The mountains don’t care who left or why you’re hurting. They just stand tall, steady and silent, reminding you that not everything breaks when love does. Find healing in the way the river keeps flowing, even when it’s low. In the way the sun still rises, even on the days I didn’t feel like getting up with it. These views give you enough closure to ride through the pain—one sunrise, one cold morning, one breath at a time. You start to look forward to breaking that bronc because the pain damn sure doesn’t compare to the boy. I know, there’s a kind of peace waiting that only shows up when you finally drop the reins and ride free. When the sun’s setting soft across the ridge and you’ve made peace with that ache in your chest, you’ll start finding pieces of yourself you forgot you were missing. And you won’t hit that breaking point again.
