In 2024 I received a diagnosis that changed everything. What I had brushed off as the ordinary aches of aging—nagging back pain that I thought I could live with—turned out to be something far more serious. Multiple spinal issues required immediate surgery. My doctor called it a “ticking time bomb,” warning me that paralysis was inevitable without intervention. The words ticking time bomb and paralysis burned into my mind like a flashing neon sign.
At 69, there was an added urgency: the surgery I needed is not performed on patients 70 and older. That meant my window for treatment was closing. The gravity of it all—the risks of the surgery, the uncertainty of recovery, the possibility of losing the life I love—was overwhelming.
When I came home from that appointment, I didn’t go inside. I went straight to the pasture. I buried my face in Tucker’s mane, breathing in the grounding, earthy scent of horse that I’ve always found so comforting. I whispered my fears to him: What if I lose the ability to walk? What if I can’t care for the animals anymore? What will happen to the sanctuary? Tucker just stood with me, steady and strong, pressing his warm muzzle against me as though to say, you are not alone. In that moment, the fear began to quiet, and my racing mind slowed.
Later, I sat among the goats and sheep. Some lay beside me, others grazed nearby, while a few locked eyes with me, listening in their own silent way. As I spoke my worries aloud, something shifted. My words changed from despair to determination. Instead of saying “What if I can’t?” I found myself saying “We will get through this. It will be OK.”
Now, nine months after neck surgery and six months after back surgery, I can say with gratitude that it really is OK. My body is still healing, and there are limitations I must accept, but I am once again caring for the animals—sometimes slowly, sometimes with help, but always with joy. On the harder days, when pain or frustration creeps in I go outside. The animals meet me where I am, and in their presence the pain fades. They offer peace, comfort, and a kind of love no medication could ever provide.
The doctors remind me that full recovery may take another 6 to 12 months. As an independent person, I sometimes grow impatient with my body. It’s easy to slip into the thought: What if this is as good as it gets? But then a dog curls up beside me, a cat stretches across my lap, or a sheep leans gently against my shoulder, and I’m reminded of something far greater: life is lived in the present moment, not in fear of the future.
When I started Serenity Farm Virginia 5 ½ years ago, I believed my mission was to rescue and rehabilitate animals. What I didn’t anticipate was how profoundly they would rescue me in return. These animals, once discarded or mistreated, have become my healers, my teachers, and my daily reminder that hope and love are always stronger than fear.
At Serenity Farm Virginia, healing goes both ways. The animals bring us comfort and strength, just as we provide them with safety and love. Their presence helps us face challenges, build resilience, and hold onto what’s good—even in difficult times. I am deeply grateful for the life I share with these beautiful souls.
Jo Bighouse