The Parts of Rescue That Stay Quiet: Beyond the Save

Two years ago today, we almost lost Honey.

At the time, we shared the basics — that there had been an emergency, that she was injured, and that she ultimately recovered. What we didn’t share were the details. Not the photos. Not the fear. Not how close it truly was.

Not because the story wasn’t important, but because even then, we didn’t feel safe telling it.

That winter was brutal. We had received an unbelievable amount of snow, with drifts reaching four to six feet in places. After a blizzard and ice, the snow crusted so hard you could walk on top of it without sinking. From the surface, everything looked flat and solid — but underneath was empty space.

Honey, one of our blind senior mares, lived in a small, quiet group that normally stayed near their shelter and round bales. But something that night spooked her — and only her. The tracks later showed she was the only one who ran.

She ran across multiple five- and six-foot drifts before hitting a fence that was almost completely buried — only eight to twelve inches visible above the snow line. When she went down, the crust finally broke beneath her and she dropped into the drift.

That morning, she didn’t come up with the others. Normally, I wouldn’t have called them up — but for some reason, I did. When she didn’t appear, I went looking.

I called her name again and again. Then, far out in the snow, I saw something move. At first, I thought it was a feed bag tangled on the fence.

I called her name once more — and it lifted.

It was her head.

If she hadn’t raised it when I called, I wouldn’t have found her.

She was trapped deep in the snow with t-posts between her legs, front and back. The snow made everything look worse than it was — blood spreads quickly against white — but somehow she had not impaled herself.

I was alone when I found her, trying to think clearly while knowing the temperatures had been dangerously cold just days before. If she had gone down during the blizzard, she would not have survived.

We cut fence. We tried digging her out. Nothing worked.

I called my neighbor, who immediately brought his tractor and snowblower to help create access. I also called the sheriff — not only because I needed help, but because he’s a horse person, and I knew that if we reached the point where she could not be saved, he could help me make an impossible decision.

I wasn’t willing to leave her to freeze or suffer.

After removing fencing and t-posts and exhausting every other option, the only remaining chance we had was to carefully drag her free by her back legs — knowing that if it didn’t work, the outcome could be very different.

It worked.

She stood immediately, walked to the barn, and over time, healed.

Two years later, Honey is still here.

But this wasn’t a one-time moment.

Situations like this — not identical, but just as stressful — happen more often than people realize.

Horses get cast next to fences or shelters. Weather shifts suddenly and causes panic. Winds roar, footing changes, animals react, and decisions have to be made quickly — sometimes alone, sometimes with whatever help can arrive fastest.

These moments are part of everyday horse care, especially in rescue. Yet they’re rarely shared anymore.

Not because they aren’t real.
Not because they aren’t important.

But because the space to talk honestly about them has grown smaller.

The parts of rescue that happen after the initial save don’t always fit into a moment that feels shareable. The adrenaline fades. The cameras move on. What remains is the ongoing care — the watching, the worrying, the responsibility that doesn’t end when the crisis does.

Those moments don’t trend. They aren’t dramatic. But they are where rescue actually lives.

And over time, many of the voices doing this day-to-day work have grown quieter — not because there’s nothing happening, but because speaking openly has begun to feel unsafe. A single image can lose its context. A moment can be judged without understanding what came before or after.

Sharing this now is a small step toward taking that narrative back — toward making space again for honesty, nuance, and the lived reality of caring for animals every single day.

This is Honey today.

Still here. Still steady.

And two years later, her story finally feels safe enough to tell.