As I remember that day in 2019, I can still feel the rush of panic when my horse galloped onto the main road. I held the reins tightly, clinging on for dear life as the wind whipped past my face. Just ahead, I spotted a gatepost before my teeth slammed together in a painful clash.
I was only 15 at the time, visiting the Lake District for my friend’s father’s 50th birthday. It was a beautiful summer day filled with joy and laughter, highlighted by the cheerful screams of children bouncing around in a garden bouncy castle. My friend and I, eager for adventure, decided to take a ride in a paddock.
After we donned our helmets and mounted our horses, I noticed my friend’s horse was acting up. Sensing her nervousness, I bravely suggested we swap horses. We started riding down a track, but soon, my friend became uneasy again, prompting us to turn back. That’s when my horse got spooked and bolted, leaving me in a state of sheer helplessness.
As we rounded a corner, the gatepost appeared in front of me. I tried to let go, but suddenly, I collided right into it.
I hit the ground hard, my body going numb from the neck down. Initially, I feared the worst—I thought I had lost my tongue. As my horse galloped away, I struggled to get to my feet, holding my face, which felt like it was falling apart. Miraculously, I managed to follow the sounds of laughter from the bouncy castle back toward the house.
When I finally arrived, gasps filled the air as guests took notice of me. Fortunately, one attendee was a nurse who quickly handed me a tea towel for my face. Looking down, I was horrified to see teeth and bone in the towel. “Is that my jaw?” I asked as bravely as I could. “Yes,” she confirmed. A first responder took one look at my injuries and quietly declared, “I won’t be able to do anything for that.”
I was rushed to Sheffield’s children’s hospital, where a specialist named Ricardo Mohammed-Ali was ready to help. They deemed it too risky to fly me in an air ambulance due to the lack of a helipad. In the ambulance, all I could think about was, “Please just tell my mum,” as my parents were still unaware of the situation.
People stared as I was wheeled in, and I told myself they were admiring my outfit—a small way to shift my mindset to a more positive outlook during such a crisis. When my dad finally arrived, he joked, “You don’t do things by halves, do you?” I could see they were trying to stay strong, but later, my mom revealed she had been experiencing a panic attack in the hallway while waiting for Ricardo to examine me.
Ricardo laid out a plan for my treatment—options A, B, and C—and assured me that if those didn’t work, he’d explore options all the way to Z. After undergoing more than 200 stitches—inside and outside of my face—I now have three titanium plates holding everything in place. Ricardo later described my injuries as among the worst facial trauma he’d seen outside of a war zone; I had come just two centimeters away from risking damage to the nerve leading to my brain, which could have been fatal.
When I woke up, my face was completely bandaged, leaving me unable to speak, and I was fed through a tube in my nose. It took two long weeks before I could talk again.
After ten days in the hospital, I was finally allowed to go home. Adjusting to my new appearance was difficult, and once again, I faced people’s stares. I reminded myself that they were admiring my outfit—a lesson in maintaining a positive perspective.
I lost all feeling between my lower lip and chin because the nerves never healed, which created some awkward moments, especially when eating hot food—I often burned myself. I now have to ask others to let me know if there’s food around my mouth. Many times, I’d come home after a day out and realize I still had bits of breakfast, like baked beans, stuck on my chin!
Since that fateful day, I haven’t ridden a horse again. While I was never a regular rider, I wouldn’t entirely rule it out. I hold no resentment toward horses; it truly was just an accident.
It took me three years to learn how to smile again, and I’ve grown to take pride in my scars. Now, in my second year at university, I’m studying English and linguistics with the aspiration of becoming a speech and language therapist. I’ve also used my experience to help raise £2,000 for a helipad at Sheffield’s children’s hospital, which has since been built.
Facing such a terrifying challenge at 15 has been an ongoing journey, but it’s taught me to never take anything for granted. Life can change in an instant, yet it has also shown me that there are good people around when you need them the most. I will always be grateful for the kindness shown to me by Ricardo, the nurses, and the ambulance crew.
