I fell in love with horses as soon as I could sit on one, which was about age 3. I remember entering the stable and yelling "Up!" to my mother the moment I saw my first horse. Once in the saddle, I felt right at home and had no fear of this huge animal.

Riding was in my blood, and I spent all my free time at the barn. In my teens, I volunteered at a therapeutic riding program. I was happiest being around horses and equestrians. Helping others was a bonus. I eventually became a riding instructor and envisioned a career working with horses. Life had other plans, though, and I moved away from the arena and started selling equestrian clothing and equipment.

To get my riding fix, I volunteered to exercise horses for a local stable. My life had settled into a happy routine when in 2012 I began experiencing problems with my vision, numbness and tingling, and heat-related fatigue. My symptoms forced me to stop riding, and a year later I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS). By this time, my left side was weak and I had poor bladder control. I also got tired easily, especially when driving, and had trouble keeping track of conversations.

For the next three years I worked with my neurologist to manage my symptoms, but in late 2015 I began to consider riding again. Could I still ride? Would I fall? Would the horse understand my challenges? As a former instructor, I already knew the answers: yes, no, and yes!

Eager to get back in the ring, I contacted a local therapeutic riding center and signed up for lessons. Being a student instead of a teacher was a new experience. So was using a mounting block to get onto Frosty, a gentle little gray quarter horse. While Frosty walked around the ring, my instructors analyzed my movements. I did the same. I felt vulnerable and less in control. My waist collapsed because of weakness on my left side, and my left hand shook while holding the reins. I couldn't help but compare my body and mind to my pre-MS self. In the past I could ride four different horses a day and walk, trot, canter, and gallop with each of them. This time, my horse was led by a volunteer, and we only walked. I knew my teachers could see my limitations and struggles.

After my lesson, I cried in my car for 20 minutes. But it was a good cry. A cry of acceptance and determination to get better.

I've come a long way since that first lesson. My horse and I graduated from a basic walk to trotting and cantering. Dressage lessons are still difficult, but they challenge both sides of my brain and body and have helped improve my balance, motor function, posture, gait, muscle symmetry, and pelvic strength. Riding has also improved my concentration and ability to multitask.

My left foot may fall out of the stirrup because of my weak leg, I may let the reins slip through the fingers of my left hand, and I have a bad limp after I dismount, but these problems diminish with every ride.

And although I never could have imagined I'd be a student instead of an instructor at this age, I'm grateful that horses are my new therapy.