They say you never forget your first heartbreak. For me, it wasn’t a person—it was a horse.

I was seventeen, just a scrappy Wyoming ranch kid trying to hold my own in a family that measured success by how well you could fix a barbed-wire fence in under fifteen minutes. There was little patience for theatrics unless you were a bull or the weather forecast. But that summer, I met Ringo—a chestnut gelding, ornery as all get-out and as stubborn as a toddler with bedtime opinions. He wasn’t technically mine, just one of the horses we used to take tourists on trail rides in the Tetons. Still, I poured my time and energy into him like he was a secret hobby. Ringo and I had a bond, forged through long afternoons trekking up canyon trails and alarming moments involving surprised moose.

Then one day, he was gone. Sold at an auction. Packed up and hauled off like yesterday’s hay bales. My parents made the call without asking me. “It’s just a horse,” my dad had grunted as I stared open-mouthed at the empty corral, but it wasn’t. Ringo had been my confidant, my escape, my slightly cantankerous therapy session. And now? Poof. Gone.

That summer, I learned a hard truth about loss: it doesn’t ask permission before it shows up, and it sure doesn’t come with instructions on how to survive. Years later, I’d find myself revisiting that same lesson—not with a horse but in my relationships.

Spoiler: The heartbreak didn’t get easier. But I did get tougher.

Part I: Smiling While It Hurts (or, the Cowboy Way)

When Ringo left, I’d still smile and saddle up for the next tourist, tossing them rehearsed lines about mountain wildflowers and the myth of the Tetons. That’s how you deal with ranch life—when something breaks, you patch it up, move on, and don’t dwell too long. Silent suffering is practically baked into the Wyoming lifestyle.

But heartbreak? That’s a different beast. Whether it’s love lost, or even Ringo-level grief, it shows up at midnight wearing boots and tracking emotional mud across your soul. And let me tell you, pretending you're “just fine” while you're carrying ten tons of ache is about as effective as yelling at a thunderstorm to quit raining. The worst part is the pretending—that fine layer of “everything’s okay” you plaster on your face at Reno’s diner when someone asks how you’re “really” doing.

So here's your first tip: quit pretending. Admit, even if it’s just to yourself, that you’ve been gutted. People think heartache is all wailing and sad Taylor Swift ballads, but it’s also those odd emotional bruises. For me, it was months of looking at empty corrals or walking past other horses and mumbling, “You’re not Ringo.” It’s okay if you’ve been there—or, in your own way, still are.

Part II: Lessons from the Rain

Flash forward a decade. I’m fresh off a breakup, not with a horse this time, but with someone I swore was my human version of Ringo—steady, kind, with just the right amount of stubborn. We’d built the kind of relationship that feels like standing under a porch in the rain—safe but still dazzlingly alive. Or so I thought. Then out of nowhere (or more accurately: six months of subtle red flags I liked to ignore), she pulled the plug.

At first, I treated the breakup the way I’d handle a Wyoming storm: chin up, wait it out, don’t let it knock you around. But there’s a key difference between weather and heartache. Weather moves on. Heartache stays parked in your driveway for weeks, refusing to leave even when you’ve stopped offering coffee.

That’s when I started field testing some survival strategies. Spoiler: crying in your truck with CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” on repeat doesn’t help as much as you think. What did help? Here’s a shortlist:

  • Write it Out: I opened my ratty old journal one stormy night and wrote down everything, unfiltered. Why I was mad. Why I felt stupid. Why I still missed her. Something about seeing your thoughts on paper cuts through the noise in your head. Like cleaning a dirty tack room, it’s messy at first but clears space for perspective.

  • Move Your Body: Wyoming winters taught me one thing—sitting still when the wolves are howling isn’t going to solve your problem. Take a walk, go for a run, or chop firewood until your arms beg for mercy. Grief and movement don’t play well together for long.

  • Rely on Your Herd: I’ll admit, I’m terrible at leaning on people. But when you’re gutted, good friends become lifesavers. Let them distract you, make you laugh, or just sit quietly over a beer. Lesson learned: even lone wolves need a pack.

Part III: Falling Apart is Optional, but Growing is Inevitable

Here’s the not-so-fun reminder: heartbreak, like losing Ringo or getting dumped, is going to change you. It doesn’t close out neatly like a Hollywood movie where someone declares dramatic love in the rain. Instead, it’s made of little moments—brushing off old dust, finding new smiles, and trusting yourself just an inch more every day.

At some point, I swapped “why me?” for “what now?” And while it’s far from easy, let me tell you: nothing builds character faster than realizing you’re not falling apart after all. Healing looks less like fireworks and more like quiet mornings where you wake up surprised you don’t feel as heavy as before.

Wrapping it Up: Ride On

I don’t know who or what your “Ringo” is—whether it’s someone you loved, a job you adored, or a version of yourself that got lost somewhere along the way. But here’s what I do know: you’re going to survive. Life, thankfully, has this stubborn insistence on keeping on whether we’re ready or not. And with every heartbreak survived, you’re building something—call it resilience, strength, or just the grit to saddle up for round two.

These days, I still think about Ringo every so often. I wonder if the family who bought him learned to appreciate his quirks or if he ever chased a moose again. But mostly, I’m thankful for the lesson he handed me as a wild seventeen-year-old: hard things don’t last forever, even if they leave a scar.

So slip your boots on, friend. It might not feel like it now, but the trail ahead has something waiting for you. And if you ever need a moment, I’m betting there’s a journal waiting, or a pair of hiking boots calling your name. Stand tall—you’ve got this.