“I’m in a Riding Funk”

“Jude should only be ridden by an adult with informed consent.”

This was the first paragraph of the report on my Thoroughbred from the University of Wisconsin School of Veterinary Medicine, after he spent the day undergoing a series of tests, x-rays and neurological exams to determine his future.

Well, shoot.

For those of you following his story, you know I had just spent the last year with half a dozen different vets trying half a dozen different treatments resulting in half a dozen maxed out credit cards. My manic search to find out why this sweet as can be off-track Thoroughbred gelding had gone from future jumper star to unsafe at any speed suddenly (and finally) ground to a halt.

It was downright inhabitable outside that February in Wisconsin morning, and as I wrapped him in two heavy weight snuggies for the hour journey, I tried to keep hope. Once I white-knuckled it through downtown Madison with a horse trailer, narrowly maneuvering around the ear-bud encrusted college kids darting out from every inch of sidewalk, we arrived at the UW Vet School through the service entrance due to my distraction.

My bestie Katie—and President of the Jude Fan Club, total membership: two—had graciously taken the day off work to obsess there with me. We sat down with the team who would examine him through the day to go over the past years of his life. Then we were told to head out and they’d call when they had any answers.

We distracted ourselves for a bit with horse gossip over Mexican food, then able to stay away no longer, went back to the clinic. Once there, we found him in the parking lot amidst a flurry of vets doing flexions and other exams on the hard surface. Like some crazed teens at a Harry Styles concert, we stalked him from the opposite side of the chain link fence, hoping to get a glimpse of what was going on.

While I had a sinking feeling going in to the appointment, my stomach dropped as I talked to the vets.

His diagnosis was indeed career ending, with findings of neck arthritis, probable spinal compression, back pain, tendon soreness and mild ataxia in all four limbs—all before they even got to his hind end!

They sent us home while I held back my tears, as I once again navigated through the terror-dome otherwise known as downtown Madison at rush hour with a horse trailer. My heart was shattered.

There were treatments I could try, and maybe I’d be able to hack him lightly here or there, but they all seemed selfish to start now for my own indulgence when he will need them for quality of life at some point in the unforeseen future. I had to face it, Jude’s riding days were done and he was to live the high life amongst his brothers in the Band of Broken Horses I’m collecting.

In that lonely drive back to the barn, my heart broke for my horse and for myself.

I had planned for him to be my next show horse. Jude was talented beyond a doubt—rocking horse canter, amazing adjustable stride, able to leap small buildings while I picked from the corner. He was to be something new for my riding in jumper land, which for this hunter princess was an excuse to collect time faults while pretending I was still eligible for the Big Eq.

And he is my sweet friend whom I had spent two summers dragging along to shows primarily hanging out, hoping for a moment to hop on in the schooling ring.

Our sport is cruel. We are far too often mean to each other, we are ruthless on ourselves, and it can be murder to our pocketbooks.

So many of us have been doing this literally our entire lives—I started riding at age three, showing at five. I proudly define myself as a “horse girl” without shame! And when we put all our hopes and dreams into another living being it is far too easy to watch them fall to pieces. Yet we will readily do it over and over and over again. Because without horses, we see ourselves as nothing.

Since that ominous day of “informed consent” I’ve been in a riding funk. This has hit me far harder than expected. I took some clients to a show in March and drug along my 18 year old Paint for fun. It was clear during schooling it was time for him to step down.

Then another member of the Band of Broken Horses was diagnosed with PSSM2 that month, which brings my total to three of four pension collectors, though their actual active contributions to the retirement fund could be classified as seriously questionable.

I love taking care of my horses. We moved to a new barn in the Spring so I could once again have full control over every aspect of their lives. I delight in wrestling fly masks onto them as the sun rises, and screaming expletives at them when they are jerks during turn in. I deeply and truly love teaching, and the small dedicated group that trusts me to guide them. I love horses and most of their people.

But what of my riding career? I miss it.

I’m unmotivated. I’m broke. I’m feeling old to start over with something super green. I’m feeling cautious because at 46 my body is very different than it was at 16, or even 26, and the day job has to pay for the Band. I’m too caught up to take the time because at a barn there is always something else to do—fix a fence, pick a pasture, organize the tack room.

Quite honestly, it is depressing, which is a state of mind I am very unfamiliar with in my own life.

So what now? We don’t often allow ourselves to admit depression in our horse world. I understand the privilege to say my mental health has been impacted by a horse having an injury. I live to ride and show. I don’t care if it is a backyard impromptu barn show judged by the barn rats or being at Kentucky Horse Park. This is who I have been since I was five years old.

I need to give myself—and my bank account—some space, and a little bit of grace. I’m not done showing, and I’m certainly not done riding. The right one will pop up at the right time, they always do. This (hopefully gelding!) will have something to teach me, as they all have, and my spark to be in the tack will reignite with the power of a thousand jump offs.

In the meantime, you’ll find me watching Jude alternate between cribbing and bullying his friend in the pasture, while all the horses in my care get fatter and lazier with each passing summer day.

But you better bet it will be “by an adult with informed consent” of course!