Winnie Grieves: What a Pony Taught Me About Love and Loss

I didn't know horses could grieve until I watched Winnie say goodbye to Blink.

For over a year, these two had been inseparable. They went to the field together every single day. They grazed side by side. They called for each other when one left. Winnie would follow Blink around like a shadow, and sometimes I'd find Winnie's grey hair stuck to Blink's brown belly—a small, tender reminder of how close they were. They weren't just companions. They were best friends.

But something shifted days before Blink passed.

Winnie started acting strange. During lessons, he wouldn't let children get on at the mounting block. He wouldn't do his favorite activity—standing still with children around him. He was restless, anxious, like something invisible was pulling at him. And then one day during a lesson Winnie ran backwards with a look of panic in his eye that was completely unlike him. It wasn't naughty behavior. It was fear. It was knowing.

I ended the lesson immediately.

Winnie knew something was wrong with his best friend.

When Blink's time came, I made the decision that I believed was right—to let him go with dignity while there was still gentleness left. And after, I did something I wasn't sure was the right call: I showed Winnie Blink's body.

What happened next broke my heart wide open.

At first, Winnie was terrified. He couldn't take his eyes off of Blink, but he couldn't move closer without jumping. Then he took a deep breath—a real, deliberate breath—and walked closer. He sniffed Blink briefly and turned his head. And then his head dropped almost to the ground, lower than I'd ever seen it. His eyes drooped, and it looked like they were watering, even though horses don't cry. But I saw it. I felt it. This pony was grieving.

He wouldn't move. He wouldn't look at Blink anymore. But he wouldn't leave either. He just stood there, frozen in the weight of what he'd lost.

I stayed with him. We stood together for as long as he needed. He didn't acknowledge my comfort in the way I might have hoped—no nuzzle, no leaning in. But he knew I was there. And I told him what he needed to hear: "I love you. I'm here. I will take care of you, and I will find you more friends."

Winnie sulked back to his field, but he went straight to the fence and stood there, unable to take his eyes off where Blink had been. Even after Blink's body was moved, Winnie stood in shock, like he was waiting for something that would never come.

In the days that followed, Winnie would come to that fence often, looking, searching, hoping. And then he'd go back to his field and the comfort of his new herd. It's like grief works in waves—moments of looking, moments of accepting, moments of just moving through it.

What Winnie Has Taught Me

We don't always recognize grief in animals because we don't expect it. But watching Winnie has shattered any doubt I had that horses feel deeply. They bond profoundly. They know when something is wrong before we do. They grieve. And they need time and space to process loss, just like we do.

My students will be taking a few weeks off while Winnie heals. Not because he can't work—but because grief deserves to be honored. Because the best thing I can do for Winnie right now is give him what I gave Blink at the end: dignity, time, and permission to feel.

I hope that in time, Winnie will integrate into his new herd. I hope he'll develop friendships as deep as the one he had with Blink. I don't believe that any friendship will replace what he lost—I don't think that's how it works for any of us. But I believe in healing. I believe in the resilience of the heart. And I believe that Winnie, like all of us, will learn to carry his grief alongside joy.

Because that's what love is. It's the risk of loss. It's standing in the space where someone used to be and feeling the enormity of their absence. It's a pony and a horse finding each other in a field and deciding they were better together. It's grey hair on a brown belly. It's all of it.

Thank you, Winnie, for showing me what love looks like when it breaks. And thank you for teaching all of us—especially my students—that grief is just love with nowhere to go. That it matters. That it's real. And that it's okay to take time to heal.

We love you Winnie and will help you heal in any way we can.

Please consider donating to our GoFundMe to replace funds lost by Blink's medical care: https://gofund.me/4bbc78d53