From The Ridiculous To The Sublime | Our Founding Story | Part 1

This is a tale of finding courage and letting go. Of trusting one’s intuition and being open to possibility in the face of loss and failure. Finding identity, solace, healing and joy in the company of horses. The chapters of my lived experience, as they have made me the person I was always meant to be,

-Mel McLaren, Founder
WalkSublime | Walking with Horses in nature™

Chapter 1. Don’t Be So Ridiculous

Mine is a story of a profound realisation that hit in my 40’s, marked by my husband’s choice to walk away from our marriage and the run-down eighty acre farm we’d made our home. Just as my younger brother was diagnosed with cancer.

As an enthusiastic, inquisitive youngster fortunate to grow up under my parents’ roof in an affluent suburb of Sydney, a love of horses was in my blood and I held a crystal clear dream – one day I would live on a farm with big dogs and multiple horses. Extroverted and unafraid to share my views, I was regularly told “Don’t be so ridiculous” when talking about thoughts, ideas, feelings. By osmosis, ridiculous became a go-to word in my vocabulary.

As I matured I unconsciously directed the term towards myself and others, blissfully unaware of the destructive impact of my seemingly innocuous chatter. Wind the clock forward two decades… within months of each other, my marriage was over and my brother passed away. Eighty acres of responsibility landed squarely on my shoulders. If I was going to keep this dream of mine alive, it was time for me to stop being angry at the world and take responsibility for my actions and thoughts.

Guess which word popped up?

Chapter 2. You Are What You Think

Seeking the guidance of a professional, I learned two unrelated traumas had occurred in my life at the same time. With new insight I eventually became fully aware of something as fact: I believed I was deserving of ridicule. Unworthy of respect from others; from myself. And the kicker – unworthy of owning horses. This unconscious belief extended to me questioning why I’d been so ‘lucky’ to achieve my lifelong dream of living on a farm; questioning the financial worth of my time and skills; feeling guilty for still being here, alive and healthy, when we all had to say goodbye to my brother at just 38 years of age. I miss him every day.

Loss is infinite – it never goes away.

My realisation explained so many things. Why I inherently craved recognition, akin to an addict seeking her next fix. It shed light on the huge expectations I placed on myself, driven to achieve, pursuing end goals at the expense of enjoying the present – of actually living. My inability to graciously accept compliments and generosity from others became clearer. And it explained why, despite being a degree qualified, financially savvy, outwardly confident woman, I’d allowed myself to quietly exist in a deteriorating marriage.

Chapter 3. Creeping Coercive Control

The fight instigated by my husband after he left – his desire to liquidate the farm I’d dreamt about for years before he and I met – awakened a fierce maternal instinct within me. There were no children in the picture, true, but that did not mean there were no dependants. I’d signed up as joint guardian of our land, desperately in need of environmental rehabilitation; joint guardian of our big dogs, the horses we’d agreed to rehome together and the livestock we’d acquired. What would become of each if their home had to be sold?

When one of two guardians walks away, the other is left with no choice but to step up. Then and there I made a firm decision. The animals and I would remain in our home; the farm would not be sold.

Not on my watch.

With the combined horsepower of five sublime companions behind me and a loyal family of Rottweilers as my guardians, I threw myself into accessing every public resource available. In so doing, another shock was to come – I learned the term coercive control. The dynamic had unfolded bit by bit, right in front of my eyes, as I willingly handed over my financial independence to my husband in a naive sense of trust.

When the muscles of our partnership left, it seemed obvious to those who knew what was going on, I’d have to sell the farm. 

There’s the running costs of the property itself on a single income, vet care for all the animals, maintenance of the old stone farmhouse and outbuildings, servicing all the machinery. There’s the physical management of eighty acres of grass, weeds, fencing and plumbing; moving livestock around the property; splitting wood to heat the old house through winter; pumping water to fill tanks of stock water in summer. Dropping everything to deal with brown snakes and red belly blacks on the verandah; on the lawn with the dogs; even in the bathroom.