When we think of gratitude, we instinctively look for it in our relationships with people: parents, teachers, friends, or mentors who shape our journeys. But sometimes, our deepest lessons in gratitude come from the quietest corners of our lives, from those who cannot speak our language yet understand us better than we do ourselves.
A few weeks ago, Sanvi, a young rider and national-level equestrian champion, came to me for help with her Common App essay. We spoke about many topics, but I nudged her towards the most avoided yet beautiful prompt: “Reflect on something you are grateful for.” It is a prompt that students often fear because they think they must find a dramatic human saviour. But gratitude, I believe, often lies in places we overlook.
Sanvi’s story unfolded in our session, a story that had been tucked away behind pride, disappointment, and a small ache of betrayal. For years, Sanvi had ridden her favourite horse, Crompton. Together they had won many trophies and ribbons. She would always visit Crompton in the stable after competitions, feed him sweet carrots, stroke his mane, and whisper her secrets into his warm neck.
At first, she resisted telling this story. She worried it wasn’t good enough, or that writing about a horse would seem childish. But as her mentor, I urged her to stay with it, to dig deeper, to remember the moments that truly mattered. I asked her simple questions: What did Crompton mean to you? When did you last see him? Why did you stop going? And slowly, the forgotten details surfaced, the little moments that hold the truth of our gratitude when we dare to look.
She told me that at her last big championship, something had gone wrong. Crompton stumbled mid-course, costing her the win. In that bitter moment, instead of pausing to reflect on her own mistakes, Sanvi felt betrayed. She told herself Crompton had let her down. She stopped visiting him. The carrots stopped. The gentle brushing and soft words stopped.
As we spoke and wrote, something shifted. Memories flooded back: early morning rides in the mist, Crompton’s gentle nudge when she was nervous, his patient calm when she needed courage. In the quiet of writing, Sanvi saw her own ingratitude. She realised how easy it was to blame, to abandon, to turn her back on a loyal friend who had carried her, quite literally, to her dreams.
With the essay draft in hand, Sanvi did something she hadn’t done in months. She went back to the stables. Crompton stood there, older but unchanged in his gentle grace. The moment he saw her, he let out a soft nicker, stamping his hoof as if to say, “Where have you been?” Sanvi held out her palm. Crompton nuzzled it, his breath warm, eyes kind. Horses don’t speak, but they remember. And they forgive.
In that small stable, Sanvi’s Inner Classroom came alive. She learnt that gratitude is not just an emotion for good times, it is a responsibility for all times. It is about loyalty when things go wrong, about honouring bonds that cannot speak for themselves.
In a world that often teaches us to compete, outshine, and move on, sometimes we need a gentle horse to remind us to stand still, to remember, and to give thanks. For Sanvi, her best trophy is not made of metal and ribbons. It is made of hay, hoofbeats, and a horse called Crompton who taught her how to be grateful, truly grateful.
And this is what the Inner Classroom is all about: finding lessons in the unexpected, and letting them shape us into kinder, more grateful human beings.
(Sheetal Bagaria is an essay strategist who guides students toward foreign education while sharing meaningful life lessons along the way.)
