Stolen Stallion

I was born on a Wednesday morning in the summer of 1972 in a small town in Sweden. As the youngest of three siblings and the only girl I was slightly spoiled and also slightly lonely. I had a vivid imagination and loved playing pretend for hours and hours where I made up characters and stories, even imaginary friends and their habitats. Behind our house was the blueberry forest with little creeks and large rocks. It’s funny how those rocks have shrunk through the years, or maybe the grass just grows taller these days? What I called the Canyon Creek is now easily overlooked as a deep ditch.

I’ll never forget the magic of childhood, the secret trails and trees that I named and tracked. I even named my bicycle and pretended he was a horse named Algot. One snowy night, the last of April – yes we still get the occasional snowfall in the end of April in the North of Sweden – all the bikes outside our house were stolen. They were probably not locked. There was usually no need for locking our bikes up in our quiet neighborhood. Both my brothers’ bikes were later found thrown in the river not far from our house, but mine was never found.

I used to feel guilty that I didn’t have a dramatic childhood and upbringing. I listened to people’s testimonies about overcoming obstacles and hardships, drugs, crime and trauma and I didn’t feel like my story was worthy to tell. Who wants to hear about a middle class white girl’s story where having her bike stolen was the biggest tragedy? That’s pitiful. That’s when I started comparing myself to others. I started silencing myself. I thought I did it to myself. I didn’t know I had an enemy. I didn’t realize there was a thief that had come to steal and belittle. I totally embraced the negative emotions around myself. It became my safe space. I wallowed in self-loathing for years, decades even. Not necessarily self-hatred, but just this feeling of not being worthy, not being good enough, always comparing myself to others, thinking they were more important, more beautiful, more real. I felt fake, but I didn’t know how to connect with my heart or my emotions. There was this void, this gap between my life, my actions, my feelings and my beliefs. I didn’t know how to bridge the gap. Sure, I believed in God and Jesus Christ but what did it really mean? In real life. For my heart. For my existence. What was I doing on planet Earth? Why was I here? Was I still playing pretend with imaginary friends in the safety of the woods behind my childhood house?

My journey has been one of circling back, trying to understand, trying to make sense, trying to forgive, to accept, to unite, to throw light on the past, on the present and on the future. Free the girl that was captivated in guilt. Give her a voice. A song. A hug. Give her back her stolen bike, now as a full-grown stallion, her companion to freedom and adventure. Go girl. Go get it. Get ’em tiger. Ride your horse. Algot. Your orange bike. Alles Gute. All is Good. He’s your Helper, Counselor, Advisor. He cares for you, carries you, takes you on adventures. He’s your friend. You’re not alone. You’ve found your prince on his white horse. He came back. Actually he never left. But maybe you needed 40 years in the desert. To understand your freedom. Ride Sally Ride.