Riding Against The Grain

You’re Still a Rider—Even When It Hurts

Falling off your horse isn’t just a physical experience. It leaves a bruise on your confidence, your rhythm, your sense of safety. You can love riding with your whole heart and still feel a jolt of panic when your foot touches the stirrup again.

I know, because I didn’t just fall.

I fell with my horse.

It happened at a show—one of those days that’s supposed to feel exciting. We were in the ring, mid-course, and then suddenly we weren’t. Oberon slipped. Maybe he lost his footing. Maybe I didn’t catch it in time. We both went down. Hard.

The fall knocked the wind out of me. My nose hit first—I heard the crack before I felt the pain. Blood, dirt, silence.

But more than anything, I remember looking over and seeing Oberon next to me on the ground. I didn’t care about the ribbons or the ride. I just needed to know he was okay.

Later, when the adrenaline wore off and the EMTs confirmed my nose was broken, the fear set in. Not just fear of getting hurt again—but fear that I’d lost my nerve. Fear that the partnership I’d built so carefully had cracked along with my bones.

But the next morning, I got back on.

Not for the crowd. Not to prove anything. Just me and Oberon, quietly behind the barn. No pressure. No plans. Just a moment to remind my body—and his—that we were still a team. Still here. Still riding.

And yeah, I cried.

My face hurt. My confidence wobbled.

But we did it. One slow, soft lap. That was enough.

That doesn’t make me invincible. That makes me honest.

And honesty is the beginning of true courage.

So if you’ve hit the dirt recently—whether it was a fluke, a spook, or a moment of “I should’ve seen that coming”—this is for you.

You’re Allowed to Be Shaken

Let’s start here: you don’t have to minimize it. You don’t have to laugh it off, downplay the fear, or pretend you’re fine when you’re still processing what happened.

Fear doesn’t mean you’re weak.

It means your body remembers.

It means your brain is doing exactly what it’s built to do: protect you.

The trick isn’t to ignore the fear. It’s to ride with it—slowly, gently, and with tools that support your nervous system, not shame it.

Five Ways to Get Back in the Saddle—Without Losing Your Nerve

1. Rebuild Ground-Up Confidence

Before you even think about riding, go back to the ground. Hand-walk. Groom. Just be with your horse again.

I spent time brushing Oberon, letting my hands remember the rhythm of his breathing. That simple connection helped more than any pep talk.

2. Ride on Your Own Timeline

There’s no prize for rushing your return. No one else gets to decide when you’re ready—not your trainer, not your barn friends, not even your own ego.

Even swinging a leg over and sitting for a few minutes counts. That was my entire “ride” the day after my fall. It was enough.

Small wins are still wins. Especially the quiet ones.

3. Simplify Your Ask

Your first rides back don’t need to be pretty or perfect. A walk. A few deep breaths. A single transition.

The goal isn’t to fake bravery—it’s to build real safety. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.

Your nervous system learns faster from calm than from courage performed under pressure.

4. Talk About It—Or Write It Down

Fear loses power when it’s spoken. Share it with a barn friend. Or write it out, even if no one sees it but you.

When I finally said out loud, “That fall shook me,” the shame eased its grip. The fear didn’t vanish—but it softened.

5. Choose Your Environment Wisely

You don’t have to ride in the busiest ring or in front of a crowd. Choose the calmest corner of your world.

That first ride back, I picked the quietest time of day and the most familiar place. Oberon and I just existed together, with no pressure to “perform.”

That softness made space for strength to return.

You’re Still a Rider

Falling doesn’t take that away from you.

In fact, how you rise—slowly, gently, on your own terms—is one of the deepest expressions of horsemanship there is.

Because riding well isn’t about being fearless.

It’s about being present.

Being connected.

Being willing to come back, even when your body remembers falling—and still chooses trust.

You’re allowed to take your time.

You’re allowed to rebuild.

You’re allowed to ride again—differently, maybe. But no less beautifully.

I broke my nose in the ring. I fell with my horse.

But the next day, I swung a leg over with trembling hands and a full heart.

And that ride—the quiet one, the shaken one, the one no one saw—was one of the bravest things I’ve ever done.

You’re still riding.

Just a little softer now.

And that softness? That’s strength.