28/04/2026
I almost didn’t go round this course. Not because I couldn’t, but because I was embarrassed.
Embarrassed that, after years of riding and competing at bigger tracks, here I was at 29, jumping a 60cm. I watched kids half my age walk the 1m course without a second thought, while I sat in my car, shrinking into the seat, asking myself, “Should I just withdraw?”.
I was embarrassed about what people might think. Would they judge me? Here I am, speaking out about performance horses, competition, and welfare… and yet I’m quietly trotting round a 60cm. Handing anyone who disagrees with me the perfect ammunition for critique: "Until you ride at that level, you can’t comment.”
But if I’m honest, the deepest part of that embarrassment came from somewhere else.
It felt like I’d failed.
Twelve-year-old me, who started out at 60cm, had such big dream, such certainty that I’d be further along by now. She had belief, determination, and this unwavering vision of where we were going to end up.
I felt like she would be so bitterly disappointed that we hadn't continued chasing those dreams, but instead regressed back to where she began.
And that’s the strange part, isn’t it?
Somewhere along the way, we start treating our hobbies like career ladders. Like we always have to be climbing. And if we step down a rung, or two, or ten, it must mean we’ve failed. That we’ve gone backwards. That we’re somehow less than we were before.
But this isn’t a career ladder.
This is supposed to be the thing that gives us joy. The thing that lets us breathe. The thing that takes us away from the noise of everything else, no matter what level.
And the truth is, the horses don’t care. They don’t care about the height of the fences, the level of the class, or whether you’re moving up or stepping back. They don’t measure success the way we do, they don't measure it at all.
That expectation? That little voice saying 'more, bigger, better'? The weight of that internal pressure?
That’s all us.
And maybe that is a weight we just don't need to carry.