12/11/2025
“Confessions of a Riding School Saint”
Hello, human.
Yes, you — the one still trying to find the correct diagonal.
I’m the riding-school horse you meet once a week. You call me “steady,” “safe,” or, when I don’t immediately burst into extended trot, “lazy.” I’ve carried hundreds like you — some with bouncing enthusiasm, others with a death-grip on the reins and a look that says, “Please, not canter.”
Every rider brings their own style. Some kick like they’re starting a lawnmower. Some perch like a baby giraffe learning ballet. One even tried “natural horsemanship” by whispering at me for twenty minutes. (I admired the effort, but grass would have been more persuasive.)
I do my best to translate. But it’s tricky when one person wants me to go forward, the next to collect, and the next to “just feel the rhythm” while clamping both legs and pulling on my face. You’d be confused too.
Sometimes, when the messages get too loud or too mixed, I tune out. You call it “lazy.” I call it “self-preservation.” You see, my job isn’t easy — I must keep everyone safe while pretending your seat bones aren’t trying to send Morse code in three languages at once.
I’ve met every training philosophy going: “forward fixes everything,” “never use the leg,” “ride from the seat,” and my favorite — “just sit deeper!” (Usually shouted as the rider performs a mid-arena levitation.)
But I’ve also met kindness. The quiet rider who remembers to breathe, softens their hand, and says “good” when I try. That’s when I lift my back, stretch my neck, and remember what partnership feels like.
I don’t care about levels or ribbons. I care that you try to understand me. That you see me not as a piece of gym equipment but as a partner — one who has to process your nerves, your posture, and your Spotify playlist of contradictory aids.
So before you call a horse lazy, ask yourself: am I clear? Calm? Consistent?
Because the truth is, I’m not stubborn — I’m exhausted from reading mixed signals.
If you listen, I’ll listen. If you work on you, I’ll meet you halfway — maybe even with a flying change if I’m feeling fancy.
After all, I’m not just your ride. I’m your mirror, your teacher, and occasionally, your unpaid therapist.
Now, scratch my withers. I’ve earned it.
Author: Gary A Diplock
