Category: OE Blog

There could not be a more perfect day to be writing this one. After our final qualifying show didn’t go according to plan, we decided to enter a schooling show to hopefully end the season on a good note. A crazy week at work and with massage clients meant a long streak of late nights and early mornings trying to make the time to ride and train. There’s still a laundry list of prep for any show, but at least this one is right in our backyard. Friday was an amazing day with a marathon massage day at Coventry Equestrian Center making sure some of my very favorite equines were in tip top shape for their final shows of the year. I had to squeeze in a ride and a run before my first client, so my tack was not so sparkling and my pony did not get a bath. But I would head down centerline, ready or not.

Like most horse show mornings, the alarm starts going off at 5:00 and everyone slowly stumbles around in various levels of consciousness until somehow the boots and clothes are packed, the coffee is made, the dog is fed and off we go. Arriving at the barn, the frantic prep immediately begins. I have a severe case of braiding anxiety that makes me panic about running out of time until my braids are done, and I can breathe easy that I won’t be spending an extra un-budgeted 20 minutes redoing ugly braids. (Unless he scratches them out on a wall. Or with his feet. That has happened). I was feeling satisfied with the state of mud removal and about to get rolling with the braids, when I heard some rumors trickling down the barn aisle… “The arena is too wet. You can’t ride in it. The show has to be cancelled.” Just in case they weren’t true, I kept grooming but it wasn’t long until the official call was made: no horse show.

I vaguely recalled seeing that the outdoor arena was underwater when we drove in, but I was too sleepy and too enamored with the sunrise for that to register as a problem. Standing there with my very clean and very grumpy horse (I had interrupted his breakfast that morning) I felt very mixed emotions to this news. Secretly happy that I didn’t have to half pass through tiny lakes, a little relieved because I was a bit less than confident heading into the show, but definitely bummed that our season ended with us doing less that our best, and a lot of regret that I had poured in so much work into training for it and woken up so. freaking. early.

But that’s horses. Plan all you want, prep every last detail, work your tail off and STILL the room for error is alarming. The was put into brilliant focus for me last week while I stole every free moment I could to watch the World Equestrian Games coverage. Here you have riders with more talent and training that most of us mere mortals have in one foot and horses… don’t even get me started on the horses. The quality of the top top horses is stunning. They hardly seem earthly, the way they move… And yet, the best in the world still go into the ring and have mistakes. I watched Steffen Peters’ young Suppenkasper with awe, and despite his great athleticism and Steffen’s skillful riding, green mistakes still occur in the piaffe. I watched Jessica von Bredow-Werndl ride a breathtaking test to hold the overnight lead for Germany, yet in an interview she said her mare was not quite herself because of the humidity. And the one that pulled at my heartstrings the hardest was Canada’s Megan Lane. Scoring only a 60.9% after some early and very costly mistakes, she came out of the ring fighting tears of disappointment knowing that she and her horse could have performed better, knowing that it was not the way she had planned on her test on the world’s stage to go. These horses and riders have teams of professionals–trainers, grooms, vets, you name it–making sure things go right, and still they don’t. The riders are mounted on the best horses in the world, with financial resources that you and I can only dream of–and still the plans go awry.

But then… sometimes the stars align and things go right. Non-horse people, we’re sorry we blow up your social media with pictures of us in awkward helmets and horses wearing ribbons, but… it’s just so rare and so exciting when things actually DO go according to plan. Just ask Isabel Werth, the most decorated equestrian Olympian in history and winner of this year’s team gold. After scoring a scorching 84%, she comes out of the ring with tears freely flowing. She might make it look easy, but the road to meeting your goals is never easy, not even when you’re Isabel Werth.

And then there are the underdogs who remind me that a gold medal is not everyone’s goal, and you can still enjoy the journey you’re on. Julio Mendoza’s Chardonnay was having a blast in that ring–throwing in flying changes just about everywhere, just for fun. The test was not mistake free and was not going to win any medals, but you wouldn’t know that by the sheer joy on Julio’s face. And while a 60.9% crushes one rider’s dreams, it makes another’s come true. On nearly the exact same score, Ellesse Tzinberg comes of the ring elated–she’s competed in her first world games and is the first dressage rider to represent the Philippines.

After three days of competition, the 15 best dressage horses and riders in the world have fought for their chance to ride for an individual medal. And it rains. And rains some more. And this world-class venue with largely unlimited resources still cannot overcome the obstacles mother nature decided to throw at them. The freestyle is cancelled, the horses fly home to stables across the world and there will be no individual champions at this WEG.

I cannot fathom the disappointment that has to come with losing the opportunity to do what you’ve worked so hard for. There may never be another chance for some of these horses and riders. I cannot even imagine what that flight home must have felt like. And yet, we keep doing this. We know that there is a one in a million chance that things could work out and we roll the dice anyways. We plan our lives around these creatures who are far too fickle to plan for. And we devote ourselves to a sport that requires a partnership with an animal who is as delicate as he is powerful. If this isn’t a recipe for heartbreak, I don’t know what it is. But the victories are oh so sweet, because they are rare and they are hard-earned.

Yet we keep doing it. Because somewhere along the way we have learned the lesson that most of us already have or someday will learn–there are no sure things. The things that can go wrong, will go wrong. If you are going to ride, show, train or love horses, be ready to accept Murphy’s Law. It’s a bitter pill to swallow sometimes, an expensive one too, but try as we might to plan around it-that’s horses. As I look back over my season wrought with missed changes and missed scores, ill-timed time off, terrifying trailering detours, plus all the run of the mill challenges, I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. But I also feel proud. We didn’t win medals of any kind this year, but I am wiser, tougher, and just maybe a bit more cynical for having gone through it. I just have to look back and say to myself, “we live to fight another day.”

Launch day was one year ago today!

I started this post over and over again, trying to reflect on the progress of the past year, about the risks taken and the goals achieved, but it kept falling short. And then, like it always seems to, the light bulb goes off and I realize that it’s something else entirely that I need to be writing about.
It was hard to write a reflection of the past year because the past is not nearly as inspiring as the future. Anniversaries are exciting not because of the time that has passed, but because of the foundation that has been laid for the future. I have learned a great deal in the past 12 months, but instead of being comfortable with where I’m at, I only want to learn more. I have learned to listen to a horse with my hands, to pay attention to patterns and changes with the horse’s body, to take note of signs as subtle as a blink or an exhale and react accordingly. I learned those beautiful things that no book can teach you, because so many people were willing to put their trust in me to work with their horses, to allow me use what I already knew and still learn more.

The joyous feeling of helping a horse feel better, relax a little, and work more happily has become completely addicting. But a year ago, it terrified me to launch this business–anytime you try something new, there is a chance you could fail. I worried about all the ways which that might happen, and all of the things that could go wrong, but everything in the “pro’s” column told me to take that leap anyways. Sometimes big dreams require big risks, and I had been dreaming but not risking anything.
What I didn’t expect to realize though was exactly how badly I needed to find this path. Plugging along at a job I like but don’t love, I wasn’t fulfilled. Research is fascinating and I’m good at my job, but it’s not what I’m meant to do. (Please tell me my boss won’t ever read this…) When I signed up for certification training, I had no idea I was signing up for the thing I was meant to do. Each happy horse has brought me joy like my desk job never will, and every tricky case has inspired me the way that only equine pursuits can.

On paper, it was kind of an epic fail. Despite marching around the Brave Horse show grounds like he owned the place, and giving me a stellar warm up before our test Saturday morning, he trotted down centerline and began flinging his head up and down, up and down, up and down. My horse does a lot of dumb things and has a lot of bad habits, but THIS is not one of them. Before I even halted at X my brain went into panic mode and I thought, “this might be bad.” Sure enough, each half halt elicited another sassy head toss, leg aids resulted in bucking, soooooo to say it was a disaster was quite an understatement.

That is certainly a succinct way to put it, if not all that informative. I was telling a non-horsey friend of mine about the weekend and finally found the right answer. There are paper goals and then there are heart goals. If you look at the paper goals, we failed, no question about it. I want do this, qualify for that, etc. etc. Nope, nope, nope. But those aren’t the only goals, those are just the ones that people focus on and talk about, they are the goals that are easiest to convey. The ones that take a backseat to the accolades and the ribbons are the heart goals. And that weekend, those were met a thousand times over. Of course, I like blue ribbons and beautiful scores, who doesn’t? But when I send in that entry, I have other goals in mind. I want to catch up with friends and acquaintances, I want to clean tack late at night sharing drinks and laughs. I want to hear stories of others’ journeys, triumphs, and struggles. I want to experience the connections with my equestrian community, other people who do what I do and love what I love. I want to ride my lovely horse in a beautiful new place, fawn over perfect fluffy footing, watch dressage tests and feel inspired. I want the first thing I do in the morning to be cleaning a stall instead of checking work email. I want to spend afternoons hand grazing and laughing at the silly things our horses do instead of counting down the hours until I can escape the office. And I want to spent every spare minute giving massages, helping riders understand how their horses are feeling and helping the horses release tension and soreness so they can perform their best for the riders who love them.

So despite the Saturday disaster that triggered some, “What am I doing with my life?” soul searching and some serious, “WTF is wrong with him?” head scratching, I drove home feeling oddly serene (even if it was hard to explain to everyone else why achieving the worst score of my dressage career equaled a good weekend). Even I didn’t get it then, but in hindsight it’s easy to see why. It’s not HOW you do, it’s WHAT you do. I spent a weekend doing what I love, with great people and beautiful horses. This is a sport that will bruise your ego yet fill your soul. How I did at the show was learn which one is more important to me ❤

I don’t think my mom knew what she was signing up for when she took me to a riding lesson for the very first time one summer afternoon more than two decades ago. But as an eight year old, I was just as fiercely persistent as I am now, so it only took me about two years of unrelenting questioning to finally make it happen. Yes, she knew some of what she was in for, but I’ll bet if you ask her, she was never expecting THIS.

She knew it was a dangerous sport. I’ll never forget her locking the minivan doors in the lesson stable’s parking lot, telling me the horrific story of Christopher Reeve’s paralysis as a last ditch effort to get me to change my mind. (No such luck). She knew it would not be a glamorous life, and warned me that horses smell and they poop a lot. (Still not deterred). Then there was the harsh reality that this was an expensive pastime, one not easily attainable by average suburban families. But nothing was diverting my attention away from how badly I wanted to ride a horse, so she, like most other unsuspecting future horse show moms, decided to sacrifice the time and the money and entertain the idea. It might just be a phase, after all.

(Spoiler alert: it was not).

So my mom began her journey as a horse show mom. This is not a life for the faint of heart. I’m sure anyone would cringe to add up the hours she spent driving me to and from riding lessons every week for years. Then there’s the fun of seeing your kid tossed into the dirt (or getting the “I’m in the hospital” phone calls). She has spent far too much time freezing inside barns, being bitten by flies, sneezed on by horses, and fielding teenage meltdowns about lost riding clothes. Bless her heart for trying to help improve my riding technique (“maybe you should do what your instructor says and try to put your heels down”) and trying to make me feel better after going off course in a show (“but I thought you looked the prettiest”). And then every horse show mom’s worst nightmare: thanks to me, my littlest sister also caught the horse show bug. Sorry, Mom.

The list of things she did is endless. But there is one thing that stands out, the very, very best thing she ever did. Not once during the past two decades of living this crazy horse girl life did she ever tell me she didn’t think I could do it. Never, not once. One of the coolest things about my mom is how much she believes in dreams. And I think believing you can do something is about the most powerful tool you can have. She may not have given me a pony, or an endless supply of riding lessons, but she gave me something far better than all of that: the belief that dreams can come true. I have to credit her for making me work so damn hard to get those riding lessons as a kid and also for never suggesting that working that hard wasn’t worth it.

I like to think that she did get something out of her sacrifice. And not just quelling the incessant pleading of an eight-year-old. I hope that she sees how her sacrifices brought me joy, how the horses helped an awkward teenager’s confidence to grow, and how being a horsewoman has given me purpose and happiness in my adult life. I doubt she had visions of crafting a horse’s ring bearer sash for her daughter’s wedding and she probably did not expect to celebrate birthdays in Kentucky Horse Park nor did she want to have her oldest daughter constantly late and covered in hay, dust and sweat at most family functions. But I imagine she dreamed of raising tough, capable women and I know she sees beyond the barn hair and the dirty fingernails to the passionate, determined woman she’s raised.

So thank you to my horse show mom! And happy Mother’s Day out to all the current and future horse show moms out there… I promise your support and sacrifice is all worth it.Someday.

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This monthly blog goal was a bit derailed to say the least. But what is there to say during winter that’s any fun to write about or read about? The weather is soul-crushing, having surgery is no fun, and neither are surprise trips to the emergency room. But that was my winter. Time to put it behind me and move on now; it’s time to focus on the things I actually love to do. Riding, training, showing.

To reflect on winter… there was no showing, and there was very little actual training. But there was riding. As soon as I could ride post-surgery, I was on. As soon as the ice melted in the outdoor, I was there. If I had the rare opportunity to take a lesson, I did. But all winter long, it felt like I was spinning my wheels, not really making any progress like I should have been. And then after much encouragement from some very persuasive friends and my very supportive husband, I entered a spring show anyways. I had some craptastic rides following this, and then like magic I had one very non-craptastic ride. I had a mediocre warm up, and daylight was quickly slipping away, but the arena was dry and empty so I attempted to school through a test. My horse does not have particularly fancy extended gaits, and is not so talented with the lateral work, but he knows his job and he tries. We executed a fairly accurate test, which of course made me happy, but the real light bulb moment came during a simple movement, a 10 meter canter circle. I want to pinch myself just typing this, but it felt EASY. He felt balanced, he did not lose rhythm, he actually had some bend, and it was so fluid I actually had a moment to think, “wow this is really happening.”

This tiny achievement may sound silly, but if you have ever met my horse, you know that he has the natural turning radius of a school bus. Once at a clinic with Lauren Sprieser, I rode the, and I quote, “largest 10 meter circle [she] had ever seen”. So as I walked back to the barn with a big stupid grin on my face and promises of many peppermints to sweet Beau, I realized I’d been wrong about not making progress. We didn’t solve the riddle of the half pass or learn any new movements, but we had surely made progress. I have a stronger, more balanced, more uphill horse than I had last year. It may not all come together every single day during every single ride, but our arrow is pointed in the right direction and sometimes that is enough. It certainly may not come together like magic at the horse show, but now I know it just might. And boy, would I be sad if I didn’t take that chance.

I pack up and leave for the first show of 2018 in one week (cue panic) and no, I may not quite be ready. But, if I waited until I felt ready, I would be waiting forever. So off we go! Squash the fears down, put the doubt aside, and just do it. Because maybe, just maybe, things could go right.

One year ago yesterday, it should have been a normal Sunday in December. I got up to go running, and planned on riding my horse later in the day and watching football with my husband. I felt sluggish getting warmed up for my run–it was cold, with a dusting of snow outside–sure to make the 10-miler that much more difficult. I was already fatigued from a 25+ mile week and nursing a sore hamstring. But I had big plans to tackle my first full marathon in the spring and I wanted to see how my body would handle the higher mileage. Once outside, the fatigue vanished. The cold was exhilarating, not draining. The snow was magical, beautiful in the way that only the first snow of the season can be. A few miles in, I was just savoring the joy that comes with footfalls coming in rhythm with the breath, snowflakes trickling down, the feeling of power that comes from legs making light work of the miles. Miraculously, the nagging pain in my hamstring that had been plaguing me was absent that day. As I approached the halfway point of my run, I told myself that if I could return home pain-free, I would go register for that marathon. I was five or six miles in, moving at a decent clip along the Monongahela River, smiling at the beauty that is Mount Washington covered in snow. I thought about how cute my horse would look against a snowy background wearing the year-end Reserve Champion ribbon he’d won the day before. And the next thing I knew, I was on my back, my right foot twisted at a grotesque angle and already swollen to twice its normal size. My first thought was, “I don’t think I can walk home.” My second thought was, “This is definitely broken.” And my third thought was, “Now I can’t run the marathon.” And then I started screaming. No one could see me, as I was flat on my back next to the rivers, laying on top of the plaque that I had slipped on, the spot marking the confluence of the three rivers, the very spot where my husband had proposed. After dragging myself up onto the edge of the fountain, a couple taking photos in Point State Park spotted me, offered their cell phone so I could call for a ride to the hospital, and–reminding me that there still are good people in this world–they worked together to carry me out of the park.

That was the start of a very long and difficult journey and one is that not over yet. The beginning stages involved being pumped full of IV morphine in the ER, learning I had fractured three bones in my leg and damaged all the tendons and ligaments in my dislocated ankle. I can vividly remember being wheeled into the OR, cold and naked with countless wires and tubes attached to me. But nothing was quite like meeting my surgeon who told me in no uncertain terms, “You will never be the same.” Despite the cloudy opiate-induced haze, I remember that moment so clearly. And in the phases of recovery that followed–the unbelievably frustrating 17 days of bed rest, the feelings of burdening everyone around me, trying to go back to work and rearranging my desk so my leg could stay elevated throughout the day–through all those initial stages I remembered those words which alternately challenged me to prove him wrong but also were a harsh dose of reality that he might be right. I remembered them in my head as I got the green light to start physical therapy and ten weeks later, I walked for the first time. To celebrate, my husband and I took our dog for a walk, but he ended up having to carry me home. As soon as I was able, I started riding again. It was months before my ankle could tolerate the force of remaining in a stirrup. And each ride that I tried something and failed, I heard those words in my head again. And yet, I entered a horse show that April. Competing with my beloved partner inspired me like nothing had been able to since the accident–I started to dream again of proving my surgeon wrong. And then finally, on a balmy spring day in May, over four months since that last winter run, I drove to a track and ran one very slow, very awkward mile. I was expecting unbridled joy for that moment, but instead, it was the sobering realization that so much had been lost during recovery. There was so far to go to get back to where I was and here that voice again–this was a reminder of never being the same.

But nevertheless, day after day, I went to that track and started over. Slowly, life started to come back to normal. Bit by bit, I noticed little changes like being able to walk on uneven ground, being able to land on both feet while dismounting, and having the flexibility to get that foot into my muck boots. Some days held these tiny victories, and yet I was still so far. I celebrated my birthday by running the Great Race, tearing across the finish line faster than I thought possible. Then I spent the next two weeks walking, not running. Up and back down, little ups and back down again. Healing became not just one thing to get through, a finite step you complete and then get back to life, it became my life. The days I made progress and the days my pain lessened were the inspiration needed to get to the next phase. And so while on this journey, I became inspired to want to help heal the pain of others–it was my horse who had lifted my spirits on the most hopeless days and had given me the inspiration to dare to dream again. One day it just came to me and I knew that the next step on this journey of healing was to find a way to help the horses who had so helped me.

And a year later, I feel a mix of relief and frustration. I am again facing surgery in three weeks because there’s a chance it might reduce my pain. The healing journey is far from over, and maybe it never will be. I still have moments where I fight tears of anger and frustration when my body can’t do what I want it to do and I still have tears of joy when I reach a new milestone or I feel closer to being how I was before this injury. But as our instructor told us on the first day of learning massage: “the giver becomes the receiver.” By learning how to become a “giver” for these horses in some small way, I have truly received so much more. They remind me that being an athlete means maintaining yourself and managing pain when setbacks arise through training and injury. They remind me that even at the best of times, we still struggle, our bodies may work against us, we may carry tension that holds us back. They remind me how wonderful it is to actually feel good. But most of all, and the lesson that has been the hardest to learn, is to know that they way you feel today doesn’t have to be the way you feel tomorrow.

So will I ever be the same? I have wondered that every day in the past year, and pondered it during the entirety of my 10 mile run today, when I finally completed the loop I set out to do last year. No, I am nowhere near as fast as I was, not as strong, with only a fraction of the endurance. But my determination, that remains the same. And never before has my goal been to be “the same,” to just maintain what I’m already able to do. No, the goal of an athlete is to improve, isn’t it? Going forward, I’m not shooting for being the athlete I was. Not being the same is quite alright, because what I want is to be better than ever.

The last six weeks have been a blur! We did tackle the previously terrifying Third Level Test 3 and while it wasn’t as polished of a performance as I was hoping for, we still scored fairly well and proudly carried home our “auto blues.” It was a nice reminder of the progress Beau has made–even when he’s not as his best, we can still execute the movements accurately. I had a breakthrough mid-test, where time seemed to slow down.

I could hear the lessons of so many trainers in my head as I rode, I felt like I had the time and the ability to execute tiny little things I’ve learned. After a sluggish centerline, I heard my dear friend Robin’s voice in my head, urging me to PREPARE for the next medium trot! So I did. Coming into the shoulder-in, I heard Pia Helsted whisper to me, don’t show the judge how hard you’re working. So I willed myself to relax my furrowed brow and quiet my leg aids. During the difficult 10 meter circle change of bend to half pass movement, I recalled my lessons with Ken Borden earlier in the summer where we DRILLED this exercise. I remembered to lift my outside rein when changing the bend to the right and not let him just bear down on my hands. For the first time in maybe forever I had the experience of having things (ok, let’s be honest, pretty much everything) go wrong in my test and being able to fix it. It was a liberating experience and a powerful reminder of why I love dressage. Dressage trains the horse but it also trains YOU as the rider.

By the time we reached the final few movements, I was still recalling lessons in my head, but now the focus was on making the movements brilliant, and not just merely surviving them. Like Lisa Hall taught us just the week before, I moved the shoulders towards the outside before asking Beau for a flying change, and I was rewarded with a powerful, clean, straight change and an 8 from the judge. On the last centerline, I was positively beaming. We survived! We got both of our changes, we made no major mistakes, the mediums were good enough and the half passes were…. passable. It was not our best, but hearkening back to the mantra of my show hunter days, you either win, or you learn. At that show, we were lucky enough to do both–but maybe because we were the only ones at Third Level that day.

​Until next time, happy schooling!