Resilience Lesson #6 The Pivot Finding My Footing: How Releasing a Dream Led Me to My True Calling
The dust settled, and with it, the quiet. After years of the steady thrum of hooves on packed earth, the low nicker of a horse greeting the morning, and the joyful chatter of riders, my barn was silent. It was a silence that echoed the closing of not one, but two significant chapters of my life: my beloved horse boarding facility and the non-profit ranch that had become my heart's work. At the same time, my coaching venture, which I had poured so much into, also came to a close.
Failure is a funny thing. It isn't a single, dramatic event—it’s a slow, grinding process of letting go. It’s a thousand small decisions leading to one final, painful one.
For me, it was the culmination of financial strain, emotional exhaustion, and the undeniable truth that what I had built, what I had dedicated my life to, was no longer sustainable. I had poured my entire heart and savings into these ventures, believing with every fiber of my being that they were my life's purpose. The reality of having to let them go felt like a betrayal of that purpose, a deep and personal rejection.
I was in my fifties, staring down the barrel of an uncertain future. All the plans I had made, all the dreams I had clung to, had dissolved like sugar in water. I felt lost, adrift in a sea of "what-ifs" and "if-onlys." The woman who had been a pillar of strength for so many—the one who could gentle a skittish horse, who could inspire confidence in a nervous rider—felt like she was crumbling. The identity I had worn for decades was gone, and I didn't know who I was without the title of "ranch owner" or "coach." The weight of that loss was immense.
The Quiet Wisdom of the Herd
For years, my sanctuary had been the barn. It was a place where I learned life's most profound lessons, not from books or seminars, but from the horses themselves. Horses are masters of resilience. They live in the moment. When they fall, they get back up.
They don't dwell on the stumble; they simply find their footing and move on. I watched them day in and day out, observing their unshakeable commitment to the present.
They taught me about instinct and trust. I learned to read their subtle cues, to understand their fears, and to earn their trust with patience and consistency. They showed me the importance of clear boundaries and the power of non-verbal communication.
They taught me that true strength isn't about control; it's about partnership and respect. A horse will not follow a leader it does not trust, and a true leader does not dominate—they guide with a gentle yet firm hand. This lesson was a powerful one, not just for the round pen, but for every relationship in my life.
And perhaps most importantly, they taught me that healing is a journey, not a destination. I saw horses recover from injuries, both physical and emotional, by leaning on their herd, by accepting care, and by finding the courage to move forward.
One mare, in particular, had come to me after a lifetime of neglect. She was skittish, untrusting, and physically frail. It took months of patient, quiet work to earn her confidence. Every small step—her first nicker of greeting, her willingness to accept a gentle touch—was a triumph.
Watching her transform into a vibrant, trusting member of the herd taught me that the journey of healing, though often slow, is always worth the effort.
In the stillness after the closing, I found myself thinking about these lessons. I was no longer the leader of a herd, but I was still a member of one—the herd of humanity. I began to realize that the wisdom I had gained from the horses was not just for the stable; it was for life.
The principles of patience, presence, and finding your footing after a fall were exactly what I needed to apply to my own life.
My Own Stumble and Journey to Healing
The years leading up to the closures had taken a toll on my body as well as my spirit. The stress, the long hours, and the constant giving had left me depleted.
I was experiencing my own midlife crisis, not just professionally, but physically. My health was suffering, and I knew I had to listen to the whispers of my body before they became screams. I was plagued by fatigue, brain fog, and hormonal imbalances that made me feel like a stranger in my own skin.
For a woman who had always prided herself on her strength and stamina, this was a difficult reality to accept.
I dove into a world of holistic health—studying nutrition, exploring mindfulness, and discovering the profound connection between gut health, hormone balance, and mental well-being. It wasn't just a casual interest; it was a desperate quest for answers.
I became my own student, my own project, and my own healer. I learned to nourish my body with the right foods, to calm my nervous system with intentional breathing, and to honor the need for rest. I discovered the power of adaptogens to manage stress, the importance of mineral balance, and the transformative effect of simply listening to my body's needs.
As I began to heal, a new kind of clarity emerged. I saw that my two worlds—the world of horses and the world of wellness—were not so different. Both were about understanding complex systems, fostering a nurturing environment, and guiding a being toward its best possible self. Both required a deep sense of empathy and the ability to listen to what wasn't being said.
My years of observing horses taught me to notice the subtle signs of distress and well-being; my deep dive into wellness gave me the tools to apply that same level of observation to the human body.
The Power of the Pivot
The word pivot is often used in business, but for me, it became a deeply personal and spiritual concept. It wasn't about abandoning my past; it was about honoring it. The horses had taught me about the heart, and my own health journey had taught me about the body. I had spent years coaching midlife women, helping them find their voice and their confidence.
The pieces were all there, scattered on the ground like puzzle pieces after a storm.
Instead of seeing the closures as a failure, I began to see them as a reframing. The doors that had shut were not locked forever; they were simply guiding me to a different, wider path. I had a unique set of skills and a deep, empathetic understanding born from my own struggles.
I knew what it felt like to be a woman in her fifties, navigating a changing body and an uncertain future. I understood the desire for a life of purpose and vitality. I knew the frustration of feeling unheard by doctors and the isolation of feeling like I was the only one struggling.
This personal experience became my greatest asset, not a weakness.
And so, the idea for my new venture was born: becoming a holistic wellness coach for women over 50. I would use my experiences with the horses to teach about resilience and inner strength. I would use my own health journey as a roadmap to guide others toward a life of wellness.
I would draw on my years of coaching to create a safe space for women to explore their own reinvention, not just in their careers but in their health and happiness. My unique background gave me a powerful, authentic voice that no textbook could ever provide.
The Art of Getting Up
Getting up when you've failed isn't a single act of courage. It's a series of small, brave choices. It's the decision to open your eyes in the morning and face the day. It's the courage to admit you're scared and the vulnerability to ask for help. It’s the wisdom to look at the wreckage and see not an end, but a beginning. It’s the strength to put one foot in front of the other, even when your legs feel heavy and the path ahead is unclear.
Today, I stand on new ground, a different kind of strength in my stride. I am no longer a ranch owner or a horse trainer in the traditional sense, but the lessons I learned in the barn are more alive than ever.
I am a healer, a guide, and a coach, using my own stumbles as proof that it is possible to not only get back up but to build something even more beautiful and authentic than before. The rejection I faced, both from my failing businesses and from my own body, became the catalyst for a life I never could have imagined.
To any woman standing at a crossroads, feeling like a chapter has closed on her life, I want you to know this: You are not defined by your failures. You are defined by your ability to rise again.
Your past is not a prison; it is a foundation. The wisdom you have gained, the strength you have forged in the fire of disappointment—it is all there, waiting to be woven into the fabric of your next great adventure. It’s time to find your footing, and step boldly onto the path that is truly yours.
Stay Zesty,
Sharon North Pohl
