There was a time I pulled at every tether,
furrowed brow, hooves deep in stubborn ground.
I thought freedom meant shaking off the leather—
not walking with it, not letting it sound
a rhythm older than rebellion’s cry.
But the yoke, it wasn’t meant for punishment.
It taught me how to bear things with grace—
like loving a woman through the rough ascent
of years, through silence and tenderness
that doesn’t always shout but stays.
The world yoked me too—
with labels, stares, “You’re not like us” coldness.
But I learned to wear that weight as truth,
to bend without breaking,
to be soft and strong and wholly whole.
I don’t pull now out of rage or refusal.
I move forward, plowing kindness into hard soil,
planting joy where once I sowed defense.
This yoke has made my shoulders wise.
Acceptance is not surrender.
It is love grown from friction
and a path walked together
in step, in sweat, in grace.
© Susie Stiles-Wolf