Riding Against The Grain

This week’s group lesson was one of those rides that reminded me exactly why I keep showing up—even when it’s hard, even when it’s humbling, even when I wonder briefly if I should’ve taken up knitting instead.

We started on the flat, drilling transitions that demanded patience, precision, and the kind of balance you think you have until your horse politely reveals otherwise.

Dressage is funny like that: from the outside, it looks calm and effortless; from the saddle, it feels like a full-body existential crisis.

(How do legs work again? Why are my hands doing that??)

Then we moved onto a four-stride bending line that felt, at times, less like a technical exercise and more like a trust fall.

If I didn’t commit to the line early enough, or if the canter got a little sluggish, we’d chip in and launch awkwardly over the jump like two kids tripping over a jump rope.

If I over-bent the track or chased the canter too much, the distance tightened up so badly we basically invented a bonus stride.

It felt like trying to thread a needle—at a gallop, blindfolded, possibly while dizzy.

And through all of my questionable steering choices, Oberon just kept going.

My big-hearted, endlessly forgiving puppy-dog partner didn’t so much as pin an ear or shoot me a side-eye. He just listened, adjusted, and gave me another try.

That kind of patience from a horse is something I never, ever take for granted.

It’s also a reminder that struggling doesn’t mean failing.

It just means you’re learning. You’re stretching past where you were yesterday.

It’s easy to get frustrated when you’ve done the homework and things still don’t click right away.

It’s easy to think, “Shouldn’t I be better by now?”

(Spoiler: Every rider alive thinks that sometimes.)

But the reality is, progress doesn’t look like a montage of highlight reels. It looks like sweat, missteps, corrections, laughing at yourself, and trying again.

Tiny Wins Deserve Gold Medals

When we finally nailed that bending line—after about a dozen very creative interpretations—I felt Oberon lift underneath me, balanced, soft, and totally with me.

For two strides, I think we both felt like Olympic champions.

(And honestly? I’m giving us the gold. No notes.)

It wasn’t perfection that made it satisfying.

It was the work we put in.

It was all the missed distances, all the “oops” moments, all the tiny recalibrations that led to that one, clean, effortless-feeling line.

Those tiny wins?

They deserve celebrating, too.

From Breeches to Scrubs: The Fastest Costume Change on Earth

I didn’t even have time to properly soak it all in.

I untacked in a blur, tossed my boots and helmet into the trunk of my car, and sped off to work—still smelling like a weird mix of horse, sweat and arena sand.

Switching from horse brain to nurse brain is always a jolt.

One minute I’m analyzing canter leads; the next minute I’m double-checking medication dosages, trying not to accidentally call a patient “good boy.”

Living a two-toned life—half in breeches, half in scrubs—sometimes feels chaotic. Like I’m always switching gears mid-stride.

It used to make me wonder if I was failing at both somehow.

Not “serious” enough to be a Real Equestrian.

Not “available” enough to be a Perfect Nurse.

But over time, I’m realizing:

This isn’t a flaw.

It’s a superpower.

I get to bring lessons from one life into the other.

Growth Happens in the Messy Middle

Riding teaches me patience, resilience, and the ability to laugh even when things go sideways.

Nursing teaches me empathy, presence, and grace under pressure.

And both teach me that growth isn’t about shiny moments.

It’s about showing up on the hard days.

It’s about stacking tiny wins on top of each other until, one day, you realize you’ve built something real.

When I walked into work that day—smelling faintly of the barn and a little bit of victory—I carried Oberon’s steadiness with me.

And I realized: even when it feels messy, even when life pulls me in a hundred directions, I’m still building something strong. Something lasting.

Because it’s not about getting everything perfect.

It’s about trying again, loving the process, and celebrating the tiny wins.

And honestly?

I wouldn’t trade it for anything.