The reality of Suzin Wells’ story is less about cinematic inspiration and more about a practical, no-nonsense approach to dealing with what life threw at her. As a former dementia ward worker from Western Australia, her life revolved around “life and horses,” a routine that was completely upended by a routine medical issue that spiralled out of control.
Her health problems started with a minor issue that quickly escalated into a multi-year medical ordeal. As Suzin told me for The Limb Shift podcast, to be launched in October 2026 for Amputee Awareness Week in Australia…
In 2018, I was working in a dementia ward and developed a blister on my right big toe. It became infected with bacteria, which led to sepsis, and I had to have my big toe removed. Unfortunately, they didn’t get it all. The front of my foot broke, and the infection just kept coming through. From 2018 to 2021, I slowly had bits and pieces of my foot amputated while simultaneously having antibiotics and everything else pumped through my system. That was my life during those years.
The heavy reliance on medical treatments brought its own set of severe complications, leaving her physically exhausted.
Then, in October 2021, another infection took hold and the antibiotics just weren’t working. My body had had enough, and honestly, I’d had enough too. Because of the constant antibiotics, I ended up with a bout of C. diff—which is colitis of the bowel caused by an infected bowel from too many medications. That is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy; it is not good. I ended up stuck in the hospital for three weeks on IV drips and everything.
After enduring twelve separate surgical procedures, an MRI finally revealed that the damage to the bone was irreversible, forcing a definitive decision.
They finally did an MRI—unfortunately, they hadn’t done one previously for some reason—and it showed that the infection was tracking up the bone. My foot was just green, basically infected, and it was completely unrecoverable. So, we amputated my right leg.
Instead of dwelling on the loss, Suzin focused on the logistics of getting back to her normal routine as quickly as possible.
That first process—those first three months of going from being fairly active and able-bodied to having one leg—is a lot. But if you’ve got goals and focuses, you don’t focus on the loss. I think that’s a good thing; you focus on what you want to achieve, how you can get going again, and what your new normal is. So, maybe ten weeks after that amputation, I rode my horse with a heavy, rigid dressing on just one leg.
The setback wasn’t a single event. Eighteen months down the road, she faced a matching scenario on her remaining leg, resulting in a below-the-knee amputation on the left side. Her response was simply to get back on the horse faster.
With this amputation, I only waited three weeks until I jumped back on my horse. I had a prosthetic leg and a heavy, rigid dressing on my left leg. I remember thinking I just had to get that first ride out of my system and get back on. So, I did it. My husband and my friend’s son, Josh, were like, ‘Oh, what are you doing?’ I told them, and they said, ‘Okay, we’ll help you, but only if you walk.’ And by that, they meant my horse walking! But as soon as I got on, I clicked him up, went straight into a canter, and cantered around on him. He has this beautiful, rocking-horse canter, like riding a wave. I just felt completely at ease.
This practical, self-reliant streak wasn’t new; Suzin had been managing her own way since she was a teenager, finding a way to ride despite tight financial constraints.
My granddad was a racehorse trainer in Kalgoorlie before I was born, but my parents weren’t into horses at all. We didn’t come from money, so we couldn’t really afford them. Then, when I was about fourteen, I was given a horse. I didn’t tell my parents, but I got a job washing dishes at a function centre in Gooseberry Hill. I would earn about thirty-five dollars a week; I paid ten dollars a week for agistment and spent the remaining twenty-five dollars on horse feed and stuff like that. After about three months, I finally told my parents, ‘I’ve got this horse, but I’m paying for it myself, and I’ve been doing it for this long.
Though horse riding is in her DNA—her mother’s cousin is Clayton Fredericks, an Olympic eventing gold medallist for Australia—she largely figured it out on her own. When asked if she doubted her ability to return to riding post-amputation, she viewed it as a practical certainty rather than a miracle.
No, I knew I would ride again. There were no questions because I’d seen other people do it. I’ve watched Paralympians ride using their teeth. I’ve watched people with no arms ride. Horses are very adaptable animals, so for me, there was never a question. It was more like, don’t tell me I can’t. If you told me I couldn’t, I probably would have loved it, because then I’d just have to go out and prove you wrong.
Operating as a bilateral amputee on the national Australian para-equestrian squad comes down to managing daily logistical hurdles, like physical discomfort and scheduling around the weather.
Obviously, I wear prosthetic legs now, including dedicated riding legs. There are always issues to manage—like sweat, especially coming into summer. Because of that, I have to ride early in the morning before it gets too hot. I also ride with two whips. I got classified, and I’m now part of the national Australian para-equestrian squad. At the end of the day, everyone has something they are dealing with; I’ve just got this, and I’ve just got to keep going. What’s the alternative? Sit on the couch and mope? That can’t last for too long, otherwise you just start climbing the walls.
Her current focus remains on the practical steps required to stay competitive, whether that means travelling across the country to compete, breeding younger horses to offset high purchase costs, or working within the sport’s administrative committees.
I’m just this chick from Bunbury who lost her legs, and I’m having a crack at it with a horse that cost a fraction of what the others do. Breeding some young horses of that calibre, and having the right people around to train them and support me, is the key to 2032. By then, I’ll be 62 years old. But there are definitely people older than that still riding.
Instead of overcomplicating her situation, she relies on a straightforward piece of advice passed down by her father: “don’t live in your pain body.” It’s a mentality that keeps her out of bed at 5:00 am every morning to work out and train her horses. Her ultimate outlook on handling life’s disruptions is plain and direct:
Keep active, keep active. Pivot when you need to. If your plan doesn’t go your way, pivot and find another way—but don’t stop. Just do it. Do it with fear. Do it with no experience. Just do it. If you’re worried, do it anyway, because you don’t know the outcome, and it could be the greatest thing that ever happened to you.
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