05/30/2026
ANNALISE MORAN — CLASS OF 2026
I’ve been trying to write this without crying, and I’ve already failed. Annalise has been with me since she was six — chin down, letters rolled together so tightly I couldn’t understand her name for months. I honestly thought she wasn’t that interested.
Shows what I know.
Her Nana Jana brought her to me hoping horses would give her something more than dance classes ever could. And they did. They woke her up. They wore her out. Sometimes both in the same lesson.
Let’s be clear: she was never shy. She was mad. Mad at the reins, mad at the horse, mad at me, mad at the universe — and absolutely determined not to let anyone know she cared. More than once she earned the “walk of shame” up from the creek after a shrug or sigh hit me wrong. And there was even a stretch where she wasn’t allowed to come at all because she got smart with Nana Jana and refused to apologize. When she finally came back, she came back with a little more grit and a lot more understanding.
She had her eras.
The “pretend I don’t care” years.
The “dumped by the tiny pony named Ida every single ride” phase.
The Killam Creek summers catching crawdads.
The COVID tent in my yard because she refused to risk missing the Tillamook Fair.
The nose‑booping that somehow became barn culture.
And somewhere in all that, she grew up. She learned how to take correction, how to take responsibility, how to turn a project into a partner, and how to breathe through the moments that made both of us crazy. By her later teens, she wasn’t just a student — she was part of the ranch. Someone I trusted with horses that mattered and kids who needed steady hands.
She eventually sold her horse and her gear, but I still catch her dressing the western part. So maybe I rubbed off on her after all.
She showed up at six.
She’s walking out at eighteen.
And if I had to do it all over again — every creek walk, every sigh, every stubborn lesson — I would.
