It all started with me being too lazy to scroll past Netflix’s top picks. There it was: War Horse (2011), directed by Steven Spielberg, starring Jeremy Irvine, Emily Watson, and a horse so emotionally expressive I now trust it more than my therapist. I thought it’d be a light background watch while I reorganized my sock drawer. I was wrong. So, so wrong.

About 37 minutes in, I realized I was crying. Not just a tear or two. Full-on silent sobs. Over a horse. A fictional horse. In a war. With cinematic lighting. But here’s the kicker: I started thinking about my toaster. Like, what if it had dreams, too? What if everything in my home has a soul and I’ve been ignoring it for years?

By the time Benedict Cumberbatch showed up riding into battle, I was fully committed to the horse’s personal journey. I wasn’t even paying attention to the humans anymore. That’s how they get you. Spielberg lures you in with prestige casting and then sucker-punches your soul with a horse’s noble eyes.

The aftermath was worse. I found myself researching horse breeds at 3AM. I bookmarked stables on Google Maps. I considered volunteering at an equine therapy center despite being allergic to hay and emotional responsibility. My friends thought I was joking. I was not.

I’m not saying the movie changed my life. I’m just saying I started naming my furniture after characters from War Horse. The toaster is Joey now. The kettle is Captain Nicholls. My IKEA floor lamp is Emily Watson. They all seem strangely okay with it.

What I’ve learned: never underestimate a Spielberg drama, a horse’s emotional range, or the way one film can unhinge your entire Tuesday. Also, if a horse ever looks at you like Joey did in that final shot, just know—you’re never forgetting that moment.