Some horses leave a massive mark on your soul in a way that’s hard to explain—the kind of presence that lingers, that makes you feel more like yourself just by being near them. Lily was that kind of horse.
She wasn’t Connie’s first horse, but calling her a ‘heart horse’ barely scratches the surface. Lily was her everything—her companion, her therapist, her mirror, her soft place to land. She was a bit older, a bit arthritic, and very attached to her emotional support pony, Hammie, but she had more spirit and soul than a barn full of show horses. She didn’t just fit into Connie’s life—she helped shape it. And if you were quiet and present, she taught you how to be better, just by being herself.
Lily was sassy, at times untrusting, and quirky, but Connie never wavered. She showed up every day, cared for her fiercely, and did everything in her power and then some to give her a fantastic life. Connie herself is a force—fierce, kind, and full of passion. She’s a spitfire with a massive heart, someone who meets the world head-on and still manages to radiate warmth, humour, and grace while doing it.
I first met Lily (and Connie, and Kelly) on a freezing cold day in Hartland in November 2022. The wind was cutting, temperatures were dropping, and Lily made it crystal clear she wasn’t feeling it. And that’s fine. Horses get to have boundaries, too. One of my guiding principles is that we always listen to the horse. So we wrapped it up early and made a note to try again when Lily might feel more herself, and we didn’t have to take warmup breaks.
Come June 2023, we regrouped with a better plan and a better understanding of what Lily needed. Hammie was nearby, out of the frame but fully present, and the difference was night and day. Lily was calm, settled, and the connection between her and Connie was on full display. We captured some truly meaningful moments—and yes, I even managed to get Kelly smiling (a personal victory I’m still proud of). Kelly, with his gruff exterior, is every bit as kind and funny as Connie. Together, they’re the kind of people you feel lucky to know.
Not long after that, Lily’s health began to decline. Age and arthritis had been creeping in for a while, but it became clear that her body was beginning to give out. Connie and Kelly made the hardest decision there is, choosing the ultimate kindness when they saw that Lily’s quality of life was slipping beyond what was fair to ask of her. She was given a celebration of life at the barn, surrounded by her people, and said goodbye on a warm, sunny day with dignity, peace, and love. It was everything she deserved.
Now, the portraits from our sessions hang in Connie and Kelly’s home. They’re not just pictures—they’re tangible pieces of Lily, quiet reminders of all she meant and still means. They hold memory and emotion in every frame. That’s why I do this. Not for social media likes or portfolio fillers, but for the moments that matter. For the kind of memory that reaches right through the years and holds you steady.
I believe people cross paths for a reason, and Connie and Kelly are proof of that. What started as a photoshoot turned into something deeper, and I feel lucky to call them friends. Photographing Lily was a privilege. Loving her was a gift. Losing her was a heartbreak. And honouring her in art? That was the magic.
Here’s to the horses who make us better humans. And here’s to Lily, who did exactly that.