February 27, 2025 
Full disclosure: I have never been a fearless rider. I’ve always been a worrier. And here’s another truth bomb.
At times, I’ve envied my brave friends. But learning to approach horses my way has been a journey of self-acceptance, embracing who I am, and understanding that growth is a lifelong process.
Even as a kid, I worried. I anxiously awaited my once-a-week lesson, which was the highlight of my life. But butterflies ricocheted around my stomach at the thought of getting in the saddle. How could something I loved so much ignite such a raging bonfire of worry in me? I continually tortured myself with scorn: What is wrong with me?
As I progressed, riding still equated to worry. Yet I craved more. I exercised any horse my trainer stuck me on, often green Standardbreds and Thoroughbreds fresh off the track. Mounting up felt like teetering on the edge of a wall, but my stubborn passion kept me going, even after countless falls.
Some rides shattered my fragile confidence like a porcelain plate, but others left me elated. It was a bizarre concoction of feelings.
As a teen, I continued to ask myself: Why am I such a chicken? I compared myself to my fearless friend, who seemed born with an unshakable belief in herself. No jump was too spooky, no buck too potentially spine-shattering. She’d fall, laugh, and hop back on like it was nothing.
Meanwhile, every fall of mine added to my already jangling nerves. I envied her—not just her confidence, but her stick-like-glue seat and fearless spirit.
To be fair, most of my barn friends had their own horses, which augmented their self-esteem. I, on the other hand, rode some lovely horses—but also buckers, stoppers, and everything in between.
Mounting up felt like walking toward a tornado, my heart a pounding gong. I often wondered: Is courage partly about having the financial means to buy a horse that doesn’t want to kill you? But deep down, I knew it wasn’t that simple.
Confidence is also innate. Either you have it, or you don’t. And I was convinced I was born a wimp.
When I finally bought my first horse with the babysitting money I had saved, a three-year-old warmblood-cross, my confidence improved a tad. Though green, my guy was a good egg, rarely giving me reason to fret. Even so, my nerves nipped at my heels like a pesky Jack Russell.
Before lessons, I’d spiral: What if I miss? What if I can’t count strides? What if I embarrass myself? Group lessons with ogling spectators left me in a haze of self-doubt. But I continued showing and lessoning because it was my passion.
As I moved from showing locally to the rated circuit, my confidence took another dip. Oh, the pressure! I’d school fine, then enter the ring, insides twisted into a tight knot, to ride like I’d never seen a distance in my life. I was stuck in a loop of self-doubt and performance anxiety.
Eventually, I had a realization, a new understanding of myself: The stress of showing was just too much. Though I loved the show environment, the show ring did not make me happy.
So, I shifted my focus to bringing along young prospects, something I had always wanted to try. And amazingly, the process of bringing along youngsters revived my latent joy. Riding my babies at home, even with nerves creeping in periodically, gave me a renewed sense of purpose. Doing young ones was something I finally felt adept at. Especially because I let my trainer do the showing.
Fast forward to the last few years, and now, I’m a mom of five. I took a hiatus from owning horses to care for my youngest two children, now four and five years old. During that time, I poured my energy into my eldest daughter’s riding journey. I gave her my best equipment, including the buttery CWD saddle I’d waited forever to own. I gave her the custom trunk that I had coveted for years like some women do a marriage proposal. The sacrifices, however, were worth it.
For several years, watching my daughter ride filled me with pride and provided my horse-fix. But I also recognized there was a void in me. I missed riding. I missed my personal relationship with horses.
When an opportunity arose to join a low-key mom’s riding group, I hesitated, because the old me crept back in. My partially rewired brain still screamed, Bad idea! What if I fall, break both legs, and can’t take care of my kids? But with encouragement from my husband and children, I gave it a whirl. I also shifted the narrative.
That very first lesson, I set the bar low: I told myself I would flat around nicely on a school horse and call it a triumph. When the trainer urged me to canter a crossrail, I replied with a firm “no,” and asked to trot instead. For the first time in my riding life, I was truly comfortable setting boundaries.
Again, I had gained new insight into myself. I gave myself permission to go at my own pace. I had nothing to prove to myself or anyone.
As the weeks went on, I grew braver, my skills returned, and my legs became less Jello-like. The mom’s group was supportive, and rusty as I was, my years of experience gave me a sense of competence.
Each ride was a small victory. I reminded myself: This is for fun. Everything I accomplish is amazing! I took pride in setting an example for my kids: Mom’s still got it, and can pursue her passion on her own terms!
As I improved, getting my eye back and jumping bigger jumps, I fought against raising the stakes for myself. I pushed back at my self-imposed pressure and anxiety to perform.
One lesson, after a particularly messy ride, I burst into tears. I apologized to the group, convinced I’d embarrassed myself because it took me four times to get the correct strides down a line. But the women didn’t care. They thought I had killed it.
When I told my children about the lesson, I framed it as a win; even though it wasn’t pretty, I pushed through and figured it out. Mom is vulnerable. Mom is brave. Mom can do it.
Here’s the thing, though; almost every ride left me feeling like a million bucks, the buildup beforehand was still challenging. Though I had become more self-accepting, convincing myself I was good enough… it was tiring.
On top of the chaos of five kids’ schedules, the logistical hurdles of regular riding lessons just weren’t sustainable. As much as I enjoyed my lessons, it was too stressful to make that piece fit into the jigsaw puzzle of my life. Yet again, I had to forge a new, positive path forward. Even as an adult, and a seasoned mom, I was continuing to learn and grow through my relationship with horses.
So, I retooled my dreams to align with what I had come to learn about myself and my lifestyle. I wanted freedom to do the horses on my terms. My family and I purchased a small farm, and I decided to focus on what brings me joy: Teaching my kids to ride and bringing along pony projects.
These days, when my eldest daughter asks if I want to show our ponies, I say, “Nah, someone else can do that. I don’t need the pressure.”
When she asks me if I miss jumping higher, and I say “Nope,” and she doesn’t quite get it.
She may not relate to my sentiments, but it feels good to finally be honest with both her and me. Perhaps, one day, I’ll return to showing or regular lessons, but for now, I’m loving the horses in the way that feels right in my heart.
Here’s what I hope you take away from my journey: It’s okay to be a worrier. It’s okay to be a just-average rider. It’s okay to not chase ribbons. It’s okay to ride for yourself, not for the approval of others. It’s very okay to be you.
Love horses in whatever way fills your bucket, because that’s what matters.
