I was twelve the first time I rode a horse. His coat was deep brown—burnished chestnut, like earth after rain or polished mahogany catching late afternoon sun. He stood grand over my small body, the largest animal I had ever touched—because I’ve never touched an elephant. Another creature of majesty.

My big eyes met his—large, liquid, aware—holding an ancient intelligence. As if he were watching the edges of the world for what might shift. His muscles moved beneath a silk-dark mane that fell like a restless river along his neck. When the wind caught it, he became mythic.

A story galloping through open air.

Unrestricted.

That day in the Carolinas, at a church revival with my mother, a missionary and religious enthusiast, we visited a friend’s farm. Open land. Hooves pressing into soil older than my fear.

I rode him bareback. No saddle. No armor. No guarantees.

And I never once believed he would let me fall. The line of his body was poetry in motion—long legs tapered like brushstrokes, shoulders angled for flight, a heart large enough to outrun doubt. A Thoroughbred. Fire stitched into his blood. Bred for stretch and stride.

Since that cosmic meeting, I’ve studied horses—their instincts, their loyalty, their uncanny perception. Who they bond with. Why they trust. How they cross water without complaint, move through punishing terrain, and weather storms without spectacle. They are prey animals with warrior hearts. That paradox alone makes them sacred.

Decades later, I introduced my daughter to the horse at the same age. Equestrian lessons. Early Saturday mornings. Summer camps. The quiet discipline of partnership. I wanted her to feel what I felt—the balance between power and surrender. The trust between species. The truth is that strength does not have to be loud to be real.

The horse is not chaotic.

When he runs, he redirects fire.

Hooves strike earth in rhythmic thunder, and you understand something elemental: this is what freedom looks like when it remembers its strength.

February 17, 2026 brings a rare convergence. A Ring of Fire Solar Eclipse in Aquarius. The Year of the Fire Horse. Aries rising—cardinal fire, initiating force. Ramadan begins. Mardi Gras unfolds. Sacred restraint and unapologetic celebration sharing one sky.

Double fire.

Transformation layered upon transformation.

The Fire Horse does not arrive gently. It brings movement. Initiation. Refusal to stall.

So what does fire mean in a year like this?

Discernment.

Fire destroys. Fire forges. It hardens steel. It clears what is dead. It signals warmth in winter.

When I rode bareback, I learned something essential: you cannot grip in fear. The tighter you clench, the more unstable you become. Balance comes from breath. From alignment. From relationship.

This is not the year to ask whether fire exists. The question is: who directs it?

Aries says: begin.
Fire Horse says: move.
The eclipse says: innovate.
The world says: adapt.

But the soul says: stay true.

The air smells different because something is burning away. Old timelines. Old Narratives. Old Dependencies.

This is not the year to play small. It is not the year to surrender your voice to fear. It is the year to ride what you’ve been given. To initiate the project. To repair the relationship. To start the training. To cross the water you’ve been staring at.

The horse does not ask if the ground is perfect. It asks if you are ready.

I was twelve when I learned that power can carry you if you respect it. That strength can feel safe. That surrender and control are not opposites—they are partners.

In 2026, under double-fire skies, we are being asked to put panic aside – and ride.

Not recklessly.
Not blindly.
But boldly.

We are not staying here.