February 11th, 2024, 11:44 AM: The Day My Life Changed Forever

Sunday mornings were our one day off each week. It was meant to be a slower day, a small break in the chaos of our everyday lives. But I still wanted to ride—I always wanted to ride. So that morning, my plan was simple: get in a training ride on my personal horse, Gucci, and then head home with my mom.

It was Super Bowl Sunday. Most people were preparing for a fun, laid-back night—gathering with friends and family, setting out snacks, and settling in to watch the biggest football game of the year. But for me, February 11th will never be about the Super Bowl again. I will never look at that game the same way.

Picture it: I’m in the saddle, warming Gucci up for our ride. Trotting around with a long rein letting his muscles warm up.

Then, my Apple Watch buzzes.

I glance down to see my brother’s name. Shane. Odd. He never really called me unless he needed something.

I ignore it.

A minute later, another buzz. Shane again. Something wasn’t right.

I answered, still on Gucci.

“Did Mom tell you what’s happening?”

“No?” I replied, confused.

“Just call her. Now. Call her now.”

My stomach dropped. The urgency in his voice was unmistakable.

Something was wrong. Really wrong. But not this. Not what was about to come next.

“Shane, what’s going on?”

There was silence. Then a shaky, barely audible response.

“Just call her. Bye. I love you.”

And then the call hung up.

Panic set in. My hands shook as I tapped my mom’s name on my phone. No answer. Again. No answer. I called again, again, again. Nothing. I called my dad. No answer. Again. Nothing. The world around me started to blur—my body still in the saddle, but my mind spiraling, racing through every possible worst-case scenario. But never this. Never what I was about to hear.

Then my phone rang. Kelly Kuretich—my mom’s assistant trainer at the time.

That’s when I knew.

Kelly never called me. Ever. And certainly not on a Sunday morning when I was mid-ride.

I answered, my voice tight with confusion.

“Hello?”

Kelly’s tone was gentle but firm, as if she knew she had to be the one to say it but didn’t know how.

“Ava, did your mom call you yet?”

“No. What is happening?”

My voice was sharp now, filled with a panic I could no longer hold back.

She hesitated for half a second, then said the words that would split my life in two.

“I am friends with a Hampton police officer, and she just let me know that your house is on fire… with your animals inside. You need to get back. Now.”

The world around me stopped.

I trotted Gucci to the end of the arena, my hands gripping the reins so tightly my knuckles turned white. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.

Kaylee—one of my best friends—was standing at the end of the arena, watching me. I looked at her, sobbing, unable to get two words out without losing my breath.

“My house is on fire. I have to go.”

I leapt off Gucci, pressing a quick kiss to his muzzle—handing him off to Kaylee to put him away for me. I turned to Kaylee, hugging her as if I could transfer some of the weight crushing my chest onto her, just for a moment.

And then I ran.

Helmet still on. Tall boots still zipped up. Heart pounding.

I ran to the truck, threw open the door, and drove straight into the nightmare waiting for me. I don’t even remember driving home.

And from there—February 11th, 2024, 11:44 AM—my family’s life changed forever.

By the time we arrived, the fire had taken the first floor of our home. Our neighbor had done the unthinkable and let our 2 poodles out of the front door, covered in smoke, coughing incessantly, and the firefighters ended up saving one of our 3 cats. While we hadn’t lost everything, our memories were gone. The things we could salvage were physically present, but they didn’t hold the same meaning anymore. Our childhood pets—our family—were inside. That is something I will never fully heal from. I wasn’t there. I couldn’t save them. I try to tell myself there was nothing I could have done, but guilt is an ugly thing. It sits in the back of my mind, whispering, asking what if?

The days after the fire are a blur. Survival mode kicked in. I don’t remember processing anything—just doing what I had to do to make it through each day. Life doesn’t stop. That’s the hardest but best thing I’ve learned. No matter how much pain you’re in, the world keeps moving. And so I moved with it.

We lived in a hotel for seven days, crammed into three separate rooms—two dogs and a cat. Separated when we needed to be together the most. Every night, I fell asleep knowing my family was just down the hall, but it still felt like we were miles apart. After losing everything, all we wanted was to be close to each other—to feel some sense of safety, some reminder that we hadn’t lost each other, too. But even that was taken from us in those first few days.

From the hotel, we moved to an Airbnb for over a month, and it still didn’t feel like home. It was temporary, just like everything else in those first few months. Then, we found our temporary housing—where we would stay for the following months. It wasn’t anything like home, but it was a blessing for us.

Through all of that, denial became my best friend. Blocking it out, convincing myself it wasn’t real—that was easier than facing it. But it was real. No amount of pretending could change that.

With all the good that happened in my career last year—the wins, the successes—it all felt so minuscule. I didn’t even process that they happened until now. It’s like I skipped a moment in time. Like my body went through the motions, but my mind was somewhere else, just trying to keep me afloat. I am just now beginning to reflect on those good moments from last year.

We wouldn’t have made it without the people who surrounded us with love and support. The people who kept my family afloat, who made us smile when smiling wasn’t even an option in our minds. The ones who held us while we cried, who never left our sides.

There are no words to fully express the gratitude I feel for them. When everything was gone—when we had nothing—they reminded us that we weren’t alone. That we were loved. That we would get through it.

To those who showed up for us, who stayed, who carried us through the darkest time of our lives—you will never be forgotten or overlooked. We can’t thank you enough.

Almost one year later—February 7th, 2025—we moved into our rebuilt home. My bedroom walls are pink now. They weren’t always. My kitchen is remodeled, not the one I learned how to cook in with my mom. The living room has a modern hardwood floor, not the chestnut brown that I took my first steps on. The new bathroom sink doesn’t have room under it for my stepstool that I used to use to reach the mirror to brush my teeth when I wasn’t tall enough. Nothing is the same & it never will be. As I sit in the same bedroom I once grew up in, trying to make sense of everything, I realize that life doesn’t give you time to grieve. It keeps moving. And while I will never forget what happened, I am learning to live with it, to honor what was lost, and to build something new.

I will never forget that day. It changed everything. It took pieces of my heart, my soul, and my past. But it also gave me the chance to rebuild, to keep moving forward, to embrace the love and support that has never wavered.

My family is the reason i could keep going. We were all the glue holding us all together. I think they would say the same if you asked them.

& for that, we are the luckiest family in the world.

We will never forget and we will forever share our story.