Faye Higbee

🙏🙏🙏

Do you only help children and veterans? Last year was the highest on record for suicide in America by farmers. One day, a man in an old truck showed up named William. He was a farmer, mid-sixties, with hands like leather and eyes that carried too much weight. He’d been fighting drought, debt, and a mind that wouldn’t quit whispering he wasn’t enough. William didn’t say much at first. He’d stand by the fence, staring at the horizon, shoulders hunched like he was carrying the whole damn world. I’d seen that look before on many of my clients, stress eating a man alive, thoughts turning dark. He’d lost his brother and father to suicide a few years back, and I could tell he was teetering close to that edge himself. He’d mutter about the bank, the crops failing again, how he felt like a failure to his family, and he just couldn't catch a break. I paired him with Ace, a horse with a heart bigger than Texas. Ace wasn’t just any horse; he had this way of looking at you, like he could see straight through to the hurt. In our program at Diego Ranch, we don’t just teach folks to ride or groom. We let the horses lead the way, let them teach people how to feel again, and how to trust. In the first few days, William just brushed Ace, slow and mechanical. I’d watch from the barn, giving him space. Then, one afternoon, Ace nudged him, hard, right in the chest. William froze, then laughed. That was the nudge he needed. He started talking to Ace, quiet at first, about the farm, the bills, the nights he’d sat with a bottle and a gun, wondering if it’d be easier to just end it like his brother and father did. Ace would stand there, like he was taking it all in. Week by week, William changed. He’d spend hours with Ace, mucking stalls, riding through the trails. I’d see him out there, talking low, and Ace would toss his head like he was answering. The program’s not magic—it’s just time, trust, and something about horses that makes you feel less alone. William told me once, “Ace doesn’t care if I’m broke or broken. He just wants me to show up.” That stuck with me. By summer’s end, William wasn’t fixed, but he was fighting. He started calling his kids more, and he was getting along with his wife. In fact, his wife started coming out to watch him ride. As he was saddling Ace, a real smile broke through. He said, “I didn’t think I’d make it this far. Guess I owe that horse a few carrots.” I told him Ace was just doing his job, but really, it’s the ranch, Diego Ranch, and the way it lets broken folks find their way back, one hoofbeat at a time. Thank you, everyone, for taking the time to read about the healing power of Diego Ranch.

It was a Friday night, and 12 year old Carrie was in the back seat. Her mom was driving home from a school play when a drunk driver ran a red light. The impact was devastating. Carrie lost her left leg below the knee. She survived, but the world she woke up to was cruel. Kids at school called her "stump," "pirate," and "half-girl." She withdrew, stopped talking, and her parents worried she'd given up. Then, someone suggested Diego Ranch. The first time Carrie sat on a horse, something shifted. She wasn't "the girl who lost her leg" anymore; she was just Carrie, learning to ride. Horses don't care about missing limbs or scars. Over weeks and months, her confidence grew. She learned to ride, to steer, to trust the animal beneath her. The bullying didn't magically stop, but it stopped mattering as much. For the first time since the accident, Carrie felt alive again. Diego Ranch and those horses didn't just teach her to ride; they gave her back her life. This is why people should reach down in their pockets and donate a 5 or 10 to help us heal children like Carrie. givesendgo.com/diegoranch?ut…