Writing a book is never just about stringing words together. It’s about telling the truth—your truth—and trusting that someone, somewhere, needs to hear it.

Hoofprints and Tire Tracks wasn’t drafted in a flurry of inspiration or typed with ease. It was written slowly, deliberately—letter by letter, day by day—with a stylus held in my mouth. My body doesn’t move the way most writers’ bodies do. But the words inside me still came pouring out. They had to.

This book is the result of years of lived experience—of surgeries and setbacks, hospital beds and horse stalls, grief and grit. It’s not fiction, and it’s not sugar-coated. It’s raw. It’s real. It’s mine. And every word is stitched with strength, softness, and the unwavering need to be heard.

Where the Story Began

The first seeds of this book were planted long ago—maybe even the first time I laid eyes on a pony named Rocky at just three and a half years old. I couldn’t have known it then, but that moment would shape the entire course of my life.

From that point forward, memories collected like snapshots in a dusty album: the quiet rhythm of riding, the deep trust built between horse and rider, the ache of being different in a world that didn’t always know what to do with me. At first, I wrote these stories just for myself—to remember, to process, to hold on.

But eventually, I realized I wasn’t the only one who needed them.

I was writing for:

• Every person who’s ever felt broken, unseen, or left behind.
• Every dreamer in a wheelchair.
• Every child who found peace in a stable.
• Anyone who’s ever clung to hope by the reins.

The Writing Process: A Different Kind of Strength

Some days, the words came easily—like breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. But most days, it was work.

Real, physical work. Writing with a mouth stick isn’t effortless. It takes patience, grit, and an almost ridiculous amount of neck control. But I wasn’t just writing a book—I was building something sacred. I was giving my younger self a voice. I was writing through pain, not around it.

There’s something holy about that—about showing up for the hard parts, even when it hurts.

Some chapters left me emotionally drained. Reliving surgeries, setbacks, and medical trauma chipped away at my strength. Writing about Craig—about loving him, losing him—shattered me all over again. But I knew I had to be honest. These stories didn’t need polishing. They needed truth. And in telling them, I found healing I never expected.

Why This Book Matters

Hoofprints and Tire Tracks isn’t just a book about horses. It’s about what they gave me—and what they helped me reclaim.

It’s about learning to love a body that came with no map.

It’s about falling down, and getting up—and doing it again, and again, and again.

It’s about prayer whispered into stall doors, about faith that flickered but never went out.

It’s about trusting that even the broken pieces of your story still matter.

Levi came into my life before Craig passed away, but it was during that devastating loss that he became something more. When the world fell apart, Levi was the one who carried me through it. He stood steady when I was falling apart. He was there in the silence, when grief said nothing and everything all at once. Levi didn’t fix it—but he helped me survive it. And sometimes, survival is the biggest miracle of all.

And then came Buttercup. Where Levi helped me hold on, Buttercup helped me move forward. She reignited something in me—the desire to train again, to push forward, to show the world what we could do. We earned ribbons and titles, but the real victory was in the trust we built and the strength I found rising in me again.

Writing this book gave me that same feeling. That maybe—just maybe—I’ve done something right. That I’ve honored the horses, the people, and the moments that made me who I am.

Looking Ahead

Hoofprints and Tire Tracks is coming soon, and I can’t wait to share it with you. Whether you’re a horse person or not, this book is for you if you’ve ever had to fight for joy. If you’ve ever felt like your story wasn’t big enough, or neat enough, or worthy enough to be told. If you’ve ever whispered to yourself, I don’t know how, but I have to keep going.

You’re not alone. I’m still going, too.

Let’s ride this trail together.

—Krys 💜