How I Used Magic to Conquer One of My Greatest Fears

by Julie Matlin

In July 2022, my husband, two kids, and I took a family trip to Israel. I was working on an essay collection about faith and considered it research. I put my husband in charge, as he’d spent a lot of time in the country over the years and I knew he’d put together a spectacular itinerary. What I didn’t know was that it would be our last family vacation. He left me several months later. 

On a hot afternoon in July, we traveled to the Bat Yaar Ranch to go horseback riding. The activity didn’t exactly surprise me, as he’d gone with the kids on several occasions. At the same time, everyone in the family knows how terrified I am of getting on a horse. 

My last attempt at horseback riding was over twenty years ago, before I had kids. Like at Bat Yaar, the horses rode the trail several times a day and knew it like the tips of their tails. Nose to ass, they followed each other in a line while the rider went through the motions of working the reins, even though the horse knew exactly what he was supposed to be doing. 

That time, however, my horse didn’t. I was the last one in line. We hit a ditch between forest and road, and while all the other horses in front of me gracefully stepped over it, my horse went in, and off I fell. To this day I can recall the entire world stopping as I fell in slow motion. I slid off the saddle, avoiding the trees as I landed in the rocky ditch.

I wasn’t hurt, but it was enough to turn me off horseback riding. While I like to imagine that I live in the grey zone most of the time, I’m pretty extreme when it comes to bad experiences. I once got sick after eating a Big Mac and didn’t have another one for at least six years. In camp, I was pushed off the dock by my instructor after insisting I didn’t want to learn to dive and it took thirty years for me to get back in the water. In parochial school, I was bullied and for forty years, turned my back on religion. I would have been perfectly happy to never get on a horse again. But just that morning, we’d gone on a hot air balloon, which my son refused to do. I’d tried to talk him into it to no avail. After that ordeal, I realized there was no way I could back out of this.

Growing up, my mother had a wealth of pithy expressions—one for every occasion. She could whip one out at will, and the one I heard most often was “Be careful, you might fall.” It’s no wonder there’s this level of fear inherent in everything new that I try. And if I should fail, or heaven forbid get hurt, well, that’s it for me. No second chances.

I tried to push these memories out of my head as we pulled up to the parking area of the ranch. My mother was dead and that particular lesson hadn’t gotten me very far in life. Maybe it would have been better if she’d gone for something like, “You can’t succeed without trying.” This was a chance for me to break that cycle, to show my kids by example that it’s always worth trying something—even if it’s hard. 

Nestled in the heart of the Birya forest, Bat Yaar sits in the upper Galilee mountains of northern Israel. To get there, we drove over dusty roads that wound among the trees planted by generations of Jews living in the diaspora. The trees are a decades-long result of  a charitable foundation called the Jewish National Fund. Growing up, JNF donation boxes were everywhere, and planting a tree for a relative was a tried-and-true birthday gift. To be amongst those very trees was humbling, a testament to both Jewish solidarity and Israel’s notorious “desert in bloom.” 

Upon arriving at the ranch, we got out of the car and walked around, trying to take it all in. We approached the stables and my stomach churned as reality sunk in. In less than twenty minutes, I’d have to get on a horse. I toyed with the idea of not joining them and my body instantly relaxed.  Then I flashed back to the earlier hot air balloon. There was no way I was getting out of this.

“Here’s the thing,” I whispered to Alex, the man who owned the ranch, after cornering him by the helmets. “I’m terrified to get on a horse. Like, to the extent that I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
Alex offered a kind smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you.”

Clearly this man didn’t understand the extent of my terror. He had no knowledge of my previous experience on a horse, no way of knowing that just the sight of the animal made my heart beat so fast I thought it would burst from my chest. I glanced over at my husband, but didn’t even bother expressing my hesitation to him. I knew there was no pity to be found there—he was adventure guy and had no understanding of fear.

I tried to swallow over the lump in my throat as Alex took a few moments to explain the outing to the group, then led us each to our horse. I barely heard a word he said until he introduced me to my horse. His name was  Magic. 

“We call him that because he is,” Alex explained. “You don’t have to do a thing. You don’t even have to hold the reins. He knows exactly what he’s supposed to do.”

His words were meant to soothe me, but I was fairly certain my last horse also knew what he was supposed to do…yet didn’t.

One of the stable hands came over to help me get up in the saddle. I turned and watched as my son, without a care in the world, put one foot in the stirrup, then swung the other leg over the horse. My son and I are a lot alike. We’re both highly anxious people. This felt like a betrayal.  

I turned to Magic and stroked him gently on the nose. “You and me, babe.”

I slid one foot into the stirrup and hoisted myself up. The physics of how I was going to get my other leg over the horse was lost on me. At fifty, much of my flexibility was gone and I was shaking something fierce.  Taking a deep breath, I swung my leg over while holding onto the saddle’s horn for dear life. There were about a dozen of us all together and Alex took his place at the head of the line. 

“No, no,” I murmured. “Don’t leave me alone up here.”

Up ahead, a young boy was having his own freak out. He was around eight years old and with his family, also North Americans, who had come to the ranch with a private guide. His parents used sheer force to get that kid on the horse. Like me, he did not want to be there. Unlike me, he had no qualms about expressing it. I almost wished I was his age, so I could express my fear with the same reckless abandon. Alex rode over and spoke quietly with him. He offered to hold his horse’s lead the entire time, and if at any time he didn’t like it, he’d take him back.

“I want that deal,” I said, waving my hand.

Alex smiled back at me and called over one of his staff, Zev, who approached on his horse to converse quietly with his boss.

Zev was in his late twenties. He wasn’t particularly tall, maybe 5’11, but he had presence. Deeply tanned, he had a lean build and an easy grace that must have come from years of riding. He pulled up on his horse’s reins, trotted over to my side, and scooped up Magic’s lead. 

“I’ve got you,” he said.

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Seriously. I won’t let go the whole ride if you don’t want me to. ”

This small gesture meant the world to me. A total stranger was ready to do what it took to put me at ease, whereas my own husband hadn’t even offered to ride next to me, despite knowing my fear. I turned my head and saw him, the last one in line, that look of impatience on his face. Thinking about it now, that lack of empathy for me had always been there. It’s amazing what we see in hindsight. 

Zev was different. True to his word, he held onto that rope and spoke encouraging words while I grasped the horn. Magic and I followed along obediently, and after a few minutes, I felt a little better. As my heart slowed to a normal rate, I sat up a little taller. The building fear that had overwhelmed me since driving to the ranch was ebbing.

“Big smile, Julie. I want to see a big smile,” Zev said. Normally, a comment like that would make me want to punch the guy in the face, but Zev was so charming, and clearly trying to make me relax, so I tried to smile. The knowledge that we were on a precipice 800 metres above sea level, however, was making it difficult.  As we worked our way onto the forest trail, we rode along the perimeter of the mountain, which rose up from a large valley that held fruit orchards, clearly divided up into neat rectangles. Our proximity to the edge drove my heart rate up again—we were awfully close. It felt like even a slight breeze would push us over into the valley below. It registered how high up I was; that Magic was a really big horse. My heartbeat kept time with his gait.

“Come on, Julie,” Zev coaxed. “Just remember, heels down, lean back as we descend this hill.”

We had very different ideas of what constituted a hill. But, as promised, Magic was on autopilot. Even when he stumbled, he righted himself immediately, never once giving me cause to doubt his sure-footedness. I felt safe. My husband could have taken a lesson or two from that horse.

I sat up a little straighter and looked around. The scenery was breathtaking. As we made our way through the trees, over the rocks and fallen branches, we encountered several cows and a bull, all roaming free in their search for food. I tried not to think too much about the bull. Surely, with all the cows around I was of little interest to him.

On my left, the rolling mountains of the Galilee spread out seemingly forever, some arid and bare, some covered in lush trees. I’d been hot to the point of uncomfortable since arriving in the country, but up there on the horse, in the forest, the temperature was bearable. The trees provided shade and the air held all the promise of summer in full bloom. I relaxed my grip on the horn, took a deep breath and looked around. It was spectacular, and just as I was beginning to enjoy myself, Zev dropped Magic’s rope.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” I asked, alarmed.

“It’s okay. I just have to ride to the back of the line to check something. I’ll be right back.”

“What do I do?” I could barely get the words out, the panic rising. 

“Nothing. His name is Magic for a reason.” And with that, Zev rode off. It must be nice, to be naturally at ease with an animal that size. He struck me as the kind of guy that kept his cool in every situation. I was envious.

And just as Zev promised, the horse kept his place in line, even as I fiddled with the reins, trying to convince myself I was holding them properly. Instead of being petrified, I was actually annoyed with myself that I hadn’t spent the first half of the expedition paying attention to how I was supposed to hold them. If I knew how to handle them, I reasoned with myself, I wouldn’t be so afraid. I saw how Zev managed his beast. They were like one. He had earlier told me that he had spent two years training her, and that she responded to verbal commands—she didn’t even require reins.  I couldn’t even be bothered to remember how to get the horse to stop.

Summoning my courage, I turned back and saw Zev still at the end of the line. Then, that courage draining, I turned back around quickly to avoid riding into any trees. Or over any cliffs.

Up ahead, Alex had also let go of the little boy’s rope. Even after all his fussing, I hadn’t heard the kid once say he wanted to back out. I wondered if that kid was also overcoming his fears, discovering the source of them and figuring things out.

“NOOOO,” he cried. “Come back!”

I guess not.

The kid threw such a tantrum, I was amazed he didn’t fall off his horse. Or that his horse didn’t throw him off. I felt myself absorbing his stress. When Zev finally returned, relief coursed through my entire body in such a way I almost felt high.

“How’d that go?” he asked, and then, not waiting for an answer, he said, “You did great.”

He picked up Magic’s rope and fell into step beside me. 

“What brings you to Israel?” he asked.

How does he shift gears so easily?

 “I’m writing a book,” I replied, trying to follow his lead into safer territory.

“A book! What about?”

“My conflicted relationship with Judaism,” I replied.

He looked at me and smiled. “Well that’s something I’d like to read.”

“I’m beginning to sense it’s a subject that touches on a lot of people’s experiences.”

“Actually, my brother, who now lives in the States, has a whole thing about spiritual Judaism. It’s a topic I’m familiar with.”

I used the opening to turn the tables and ask him about his family. He proudly pulled out his phone and  found a YouTube video of his brother and passed it to me. I took it, incredulous, and said, “Do you really think I can focus on this while I’m up here on this horse?”

“Just watch the video and trust in Magic.”

So I did. I admit, it was very hard to focus, but it forced me to relax a little in the saddle. I held his phone for a few minutes, watching his brother deliver a TED-style talk about faith in everyday life, before passing it back to him.

“Great,” he said. “Ready to trot?”

I was beginning to suspect that Zev was using some kind of horse psychology on me. He’d ease me into a lull, then raise the stakes. I was waiting for him to scratch me behind the ears.

The horses took off at a much faster pace than I was comfortable with, but this whole expedition had pushed me so far out of my comfort zone it barely registered. I abandoned the reins altogether and held onto the horn, trying desperately to land back in the saddle each time the horse’s hooves hit the forest floor.

After what felt like forever, the horses slowed down to a walk again. Zev looked at me and grinned, “Not so bad, was it?”

I think the expression on my face told him all he needed to know. But I forgave him because I was anxious to resume our conversation.

“Were you born in Israel?” I asked.

“No. I’m originally from the States. I moved here with my family in my late teens, but we’re all scattered now.”

He asked where I was from. When I said Quebec, he asked if I spoke French. When I told him I did, he smiled that dazzling smile. “That’s great. Language is the key, you know. When I learned Hebrew, I felt like I’d unlocked a whole other level. Language opens doors. It’s like riding a horse,” he said. “It’s just another skill to have under your belt.” 

Zev continued to talk as we returned to the ranch, lulling me back into that comfortable state for which I was grateful, as it allowed me to really take in my surroundings and be in the moment, which I’ve always struggled with. 

We got back to the stables and I was gearing up to dismount when Zev stopped me.

“Let me take a picture,” he said. “So you’ll always be able to remember this moment.”

I sat up straight on Magic’s back, feeling a sense of pride at what I’d just accomplished. When he was done, a stable hand came over and helped me off the horse.

“Zev,” I called, catching him as he turned to leave. I wanted to tell him how special the experience was, even though I knew that for him, it was just another trail ride. “Thank you. That really meant a lot to me.”

He smiled and went on his way.

“Wasn’t that amazing?” I asked, as the rest of my crew came over.

My son shrugged, my daughter just marveled at how I’d spent an hour in conversation with a man half my age, and my husband just grunted, “Eh, it was a little underwhelming.” 

I stared at them, shocked that something so transformative for me meant so little to them. They’d just gone on a trail ride. I had broken a cycle of fear. Feeling brave, I thought maybe I’d try swimming next. All it took was a little push.

Julie Matlin is a writer based in Montreal, Canada with pieces appearing in The New York Times, Washington Post, The Globe and Mail, Huffington Post, and other publications. She has two screenplays currently in development and is working on an essay collection entitled Such a Nice Jewish Girl, which is supported by a Canada Council for the Arts grant. She has a fondness for puppies, naps, and the music of Jack White. Her work can be found at www.JulieMatlin.com.