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http://www.katrinsilvadressage.com/

Katrin Silva Dressage, 69 Bonanza Creek Road, Santa Fe, NM (2026)

05/23/2026

This old basketweave is my all-time favorite saddle. It’s not fancy. It’s not flashy. It’s twenty-plus years old. But whenever I’m in it, I feel at home. You could say we are in a long-term relationship. I’ve spent more time in it than in any other saddle, because it fits so many different horses, and it fits me. It feels comfy and correct, but never restrictive.
I got it, well used, from Kay Coen many years ago. And she found it, already used, many years before that, in some tack shop in Arizona. I’ve bought other saddles since, for quite a bit more money. But I’ve never found another like this one. I don’t exactly know why this saddle and I are so well matched, but we are.
I’ve ridden in this saddle for so many hours, for so many years, that parts of it became wafer-thin. I’ve literally ridden the leather off my saddle. But retiring it is not an option. It’s a good thing we’ve got an excellent saddle shop in the neighborhood.
Thank you, Clint Mortenson, for new leathers, new latigos, and new stirrup threads. My old friend looks and feels like new. I hope we enjoy many more years of riding many different horses.
Do you have an all-time favorite saddle? I’d love to hear about it!

05/19/2026

All conversations we have with our horses while riding begin with the seat. In the language of our aids, the seat is the verb of every sentence: nothing we say makes sense without it. Leg and rein aids can be important, but they depend on the seat for meaning.
Sometimes, our seat, hands, and legs contradict each other. When that happens, the horse usually believes what the seat says. This is why “Kick harder!” is not usually the best advice for riders who have trouble getting their horses to trot or canter. The legs may say “Go!” But as long as the seat (and, sometimes, the reins, too) say “Don’t go!” nothing will happen.
Really good riders look like they are doing absolutely nothing because they use their seat does all the work. Novice riders look like they are doing a lot more, because their hands and feet are trying to compensate for what their seat is not yet able to tell the horse. It is my life’s ambition to bring my aids closer to the center of my body. I will keep working on this until my last ride.
The seat is a powerful communication tool. Most of us don’t use it well enough. We are too focused on looking like we know what we are doing. But it’s not about how we look on a horse. It’s about having a good conversation with our horses.

05/12/2026

“Why don’t you offer any online courses? I’d sign up!”
Here is the short answer: Because I am not selling a “method” I can easily package into six neat, convenient lessons.
Because horses are individuals.
Because horse owners are individuals.
Because, even after working with so many horses for so many years, I would never guarantee any particular outcome with any horse, especially not in any sort of prescribed time frame.
Here is the longer version:
As a perpetual student, I’ve watched many valuable training videos, plus some not so valuable ones. I’ve learned a lot from online courses, but would never consider them a substitute for individualized lessons, IRL or over video. And I struggle to put together an online course that honestly reflects what I actually do every day - the messy, humbling reality that fills up the spaces between the lightbulb moments.
I do have a program with clearly defined goals: to help every horse in my barn become the most confident, most athletic version of himself. To help build solid partnerships between these horses and their riders, using the tools I have learned to use over the years. But here’s the rub: not every tool is right for every horse. Before I do anything else, I need to spend some time listening to each horse. Some horses (and riders, too) need to let go of tension or resolve confusion before any meaningful progress can happen. Some need to address physical issues first. Some horses (and riders, too) need consistent boundaries more than anything else. Anxious horses (and riders) benefit from rewards and reassurance more than pushy types. And so on. The best medicine for one particular horse may well be poison for another.
Some online content I’ve looked at is nothing more than snake oil, but many online courses offer correct techniques that work. Still, they don’t work for all horses, or they don’t work the same for all horses. I fear that any online content I release out into the world could cause more harm than good.
Plus, sometimes (many times, if I’m honest) I start heading in one direction with a horse, only to realize it’s not quite the right one. And then, I adjust what I do. As the horse begins to make progress, in spite of my inevitable blunders, I may have to tweak or change what I do once again. And again. It’s anything but a neat, linear process. It’s full of mistakes and course corrections. Sometimes, progress happens quickly. Other times, the pace of progress slows down to a glacier-like crawl. Online content tends to gloss over these parts of the training process: the confounding moments, the boring times when not much seems to be happening at all, the two steps forward and one step back kind of dance that those of us who have been doing it for a while know so well.
So no, I don’t offer any online courses, at least not yet. I’ve tried to design some online content a time or two. I ended up feeling like I wasn’t being 100 percent honest, not entirely myself. I ended up feeling like a fraud. I have not given up on the idea of designing online courses, but I’m getting close.
Those of you who learn from online courses, I’d like to hear from you: Which features do you find helpful? What irritates you? Do you still take real-life lessons, or do you find online content is an adequate substitute?

05/11/2026

How can you tell the great horsemen apart from the not so great ones?
Not when everything goes as planned.
It’s easy to admire great horsewomen and horsemen when they’re in their element. When they’re doing what they do best, whether that’s upper-level dressage or basic groundwork with a c**t. When their riding or handling seems effortless. When they present a picture of perfect harmony, with a happy horse who understands what he is being asked to do.
But true greatness does not reveal itself during those moments. True greatness shows up when things go wrong.
When mistakes are made.
When horses don’t do what they’re expected to do.
When horsemen are not at their best.
When they are tired, scared, or feeling pressured to perform.
This is Tomás Medrano, one of the finest horsemen I’ve ever been around. When did I realize this? When I saw the way he treated every horse in the barn with the same dignity and respect. When I watched him still being calm and fair to the horses while he was tired, sick, or going through some incredibly rough personal stuff.
But one moment really stands out - the one when Tomás he came off a mustang he was working with in the round pen, with several of us watching. When he, face down in the dirt, picked himself up, picked up his hat, caught his horse, and, in a calm, reassuring voice, said: “Let’s start again.” And they did. And it worked much better.
Valentino and Tomás developed a beautiful partnership over time. I learned a lot from watching them - mainly that I have a lot to learn. I think of that moment, and many other moments like it, whenever I make mistakes. Whenever I don’t feel at my best. Whenever my ego tries to get in the way. Stay calm. Start again. It’s not rocket science. It’s, actually, much harder than rocket science. But it’s my life goal.

05/02/2026

“More is not better.” - Saddles and Tack
Deep down, most of us know that more leather or metal is rarely a good solution for training issues. A horse who tosses his head or braces against the rider’s hand won’t learn anything useful from severe bits, draw reins, tie downs, tight (or, even worse, spiked) nose bands, and other contraptions designed to keep the horse’s mouth closed or his head in a particular position. We can’t force a soft, steady connection. I have learned, over many years and through a lot of trial and error, that gimmicks only work in the short term. More often than not, they mask deeper issues: missing rider skills, like feel and an independent seat. A horse who lacks balance and strength. A horse who does not understand his riders aids. And, often, at the root of it all, a lack of trust between horse and rider.

The same goes for saddles. Overbuilt contraptions designed to “help” riders find the correct seat are counterproductive. Dressage saddles with huge knee rolls or Western equitation saddles with extremely deep seats do more harm than good. They can wedge us into an overstretched, uncomfortable position that looks correct from the outside, but they are not helpful for developing an effective, functional seat that allows a rider to communicate with the horse’s back, with feel and timing.

So, then, is all tack a bad thing that causes our horses nothing but grief? No. Definitely not. Less tack is not always better either. A well-fitting, close-contact saddle provides just enough cushioning between my backside and the horse’s spine to make the conversation between them more polite without sacrificing clarity. I enjoy riding ba****ck, but don’t do it all the time - for safety reasons, and also because it’s not the best thing for the horse’s back, or for mine. When I do get on a horse ba****ck for the first time, it marks a milestone in our relationship. It means we trust each other to a significant degree. It also means that the horse’s back has developed appropriate muscles to make the experience a positive one for both of us.

When it comes to bridles, many riders who want to be fair to their horses choose to use bitless bridles - but these are not automatically kinder. A horse’s facial skin is sensitive and thin, stretched tightly over delicate bone structures. Most bitless bridles can cause pain, especially if we use them without finesse. There is nothing wrong with riding bitless, but it’s not a substitute for quiet, independent hands, or for fine-tuning our communication with our horses. And while I admire bridleless riding, and sometimes play around with it in a controlled environment on a horse I know really well, it’s not something I would feel safe doing with most of the horses in my program, or something I would recommend to most of my students in most situations. Developing a balanced seat and independent hands is a much better way of being fair to our horses. Finding the best kind of bit (or no bit) for each individual horse, and teaching our horses to trust and accept contact with our hands takes time and practice, but the payoff is a real, long-term partnership.

Like with 99 percent of horse-related issues, the art of using the right tack for any horse, in any given situation, consists of finding the middle ground of “just enough.”

04/29/2026

Like most dedicated riders, I am always working on my seat. But what does that mean?
It used to mean a lot of self-flagellation. I used to ride by the mirrors in the indoor arena all day, self-consciously scrutinizing my position. My legs never stretched down far enough. My ears, shoulders, hips, and heels never formed a perfectly straight line. I tried hard to look like the dressage goddesses I admired, but never lived up to my own standards, or those of my teachers. I often drove home from the barn feeling like the world’s worst rider, ever.
I still use the mirrors every day, but try to beat myself up a lot less when I don’t love what I see. I still feel inspired when watching videos of riders I admire, but I’ve made peace with my shortcomings. Over the years, I’ve learned that I can try as hard as I want, buy my body type is different from Ingrid Klimke’s and always will be.
I’ve also learned that a good seat does not always mean a perfect alignment of ear, shoulder, hip, and heel. It does not mean a straight but rigid back. It does not mean conforming to an impossible ideal.
A good seat is not a fixed “position”, but it’s not a random individual choice, either. It’s a range of postures. Every good seat is symmetric. Every good rider is in self-carriage. Within those parameters, we find an infinite number of variations of the good seat. What we don’t find is the one perfect seat. What we do find are contradictions:
A good seat means growing tall, while also melting into the horse’s back.
A good seat means being both active and passive, riding with purpose, yet allowing the horse to move me.
A good seat means I’m both stable and soft, both firm and jello-like.
How can all this be true at the same time?
A really good seat is adjustable. Depending on the horse we’re on and the situation we’re in, we sit a little lighter or a little heavier, a little more forward or a little more back. We sit more passively on a green horse. We are using our seat as the tool that it was meant to be on an educated horse.
More than anything else, a good seat comes from a rider’s attitude,
It’s an open awareness. It’s ready to receive the horse’s feedback. It’s ready to answer appropriately.
A good seat is a reassuring hug that gives a horse confidence, or a firm sense of direction and purpose, depending on what the horse needs at this moment.
A good seat means I can hear what my horses are telling me. A good seat means I can respond, directly, immediately.
A good seat allows my body to have a conversation with the horse’s body, spine to spine, back to back. Or, as Udo Bürger said a long time ago, “to merge two separate beings into one.” It’s an astonishing state of affairs. It’s a privilege I want to keep earning, every day, on every horse.
So, yes. I still work on my seat every day. I need to. But the reasons have changed. It’s not about chasing perfection. It’s about becoming a better load for my horses to carry and communicate with. I spend a lot more time talking to my horses through my seat, and a lot less time beating myself up.
How about you?

04/11/2026

Half-halts are fleeting. Half-halts are over in the blink of an eye. The release is a vital part of the half-halt, not a separate thing, not an afterthought you can forget some of the time, or most of the time. “Sustained half-halt” is an oxymoron. We can, and should, repeat the half-halt, but we have to give it back immediately - unless we want to teach our horse to brace against our hands, or worse, to curl behind the vertical to avoid contact.

The same is true for leg aids. We can’t nag. Horses can’t understand being squeezed or kicked constantly. If we want our horses to learn that the language we use means something, we can’t let our aids become a run-on sentence. We need punctation. We need to stop giving the aid - sometimes, before the horse has given us anything in return.

The concept goes against what most of us have been taught, i.e. “Give when the horse gives.” We take this to mean “Give after the horse has given to us.” But, with many horses, this means we never give. It means we’re stuck in a holding pattern of pulling or nagging, or both. Even if the horse has not given to us, we have to give before we start asking again.

Giving the half-halt back means the horse has a chance to check in, to rebalance, to say “Yes, I’m listening. What do we do next?” or, alternatively “Look over there!” , or “I’m too scared to listen!” or even “Huh? What?”

And then, we get the chance to repeat our request, or to change it into something the horse can understand right now, like “You are safe with me.” or “Let’s break it down into simpler steps.”Giving the half-halt back keeps the horse from feeling trapped and, eventually, resentful. Taking the leg off means giving the horse a chance to understand it.

I used to tell myself “Half halt, give” all day long, so I would not forget to give back each half halt. But I still found myself hanging on for too long. Now, I tell myself “give, half-halt, give” to make sure I’ve released the last half halt before asking for a new one. And I still hold on too long sometimes. I still find myself stuck in the old rut of "Wait him out!" My brain knows better, but my body hangs on to what it remembers. Do you find yourself doing this, too?

04/08/2026

I teach two very different types of students.
There’s the Type A student. She is always on time - in fact, she has been warming up her horse for 30 minutes by the time her lesson is actually scheduled. Her horse is impeccably groomed, with no tangles in the tail and no green stains anywhere. Her tack is clean, workmanlike, and in pristine condition. She has studied the history and theory of her chosen sport. She wears tastefully coordinated breeches and polo shirts, or an equally coordinated set of jeans, belt, and boots with a tucked-in shirt. She pays close attention to every word I say, asks questions when she does not understand something. She has clearly defined goals. Her expression is focused and serious, a picture of dedication to the pursuit of excellent horsemanship. She is ready to work on improving her already quite correct riding, committed to do whatever it takes.

The Type B student, on the other hand, texts me at 10 pm on Monday night to ask when her Tuesday lesson is, because she forgot to write it down. In spite of that, she usually runs a few minutes late, apologizing profusely. Her horse’s tack is a haphazard collection of Western and English elements, held together with baling twine. Her hair, sometimes with bits of alfalfa mixed into it, sticks out in all directions from under her helmet. Her boots are crusted with dirt. Her horse ’s coat is clean under the saddle and girth, but not anywhere else. Her gloves don’t match. But when she finally walks into the arena, slightly out of breath, her smile is wide and contagious. She may not know, exactly, what we are trying to accomplish today, but she is thrilled to have made it to her lesson, happy to be here, with the horse she loves. She is ready to work on her riding and her relationship with her horse, whatever that might mean today, and as long as she and her horse enjoy doing it.

Which type of student is my favorite? The answer to that question is not as simple as you may think. Of course I want to start my lessons on time. Of course I enjoy working with students who come prepared. Of course I appreciate students who show respect for me, and for the tradition of riding they have chosen to pursue. Of course I enjoy working with students who already have a solid foundation. Of course I enjoy working with students who make me look good.
But then I remember why I enjoy teaching in the first place. It isn’t about me - it’s about building the horse-rider team I see in front of me. It’s about them understanding each other. It’s about the polite, mutually respectful conversation they need to have with each other. And here, the playing field levels out.
Teaching overly driven overachievers to slow down and take a moment to listen their horse can be a bigger challenge than teaching less goal-oriented students to develop clarity and direction with their horse. Teaching an experienced rider to let go of deeply ingrained habits is often harder than teaching a newbie to develop good habits to begin with. Teaching a more laid-back student how to be a good student (i.e. one who practices between lessons, shows up on time, etc) can be easier than teaching the Type A student to not practice every exercise I suggest until her horse is thoroughly sick of it.
Type B students can learn some things from type A students, it’s true. But the opposite is also true. My enthusiastic, chaotic, chronically late students jolt me out of my own Type A tendencies. They remind me of my Type B beginnings, of why I do what I do, of how happy I used to be as a horse-crazy teenager, to just ride, without an agenda, other than being with my horse. I can honestly say I really appreciate all my students - Type A, Type B, and everyone in between.
Which type of student are you?

04/01/2026

“ When I was a child, in Germany, every group lesson ended with a little jump. Because the lesson horses we were riding did what they could to avoid our bouncing hands and gripping legs, their enthusiasm for the exercise was limited. Herr Zellweger, our teacher with the thick Swiss accent and the colorful vocabulary, stood poised and ready to “help” by cracking his lunge whip when a horse stopped right before the jump, which often made the horse buck. We often ended up in front of the saddle. Sometimes, we ended up on the ground and had to climb back on.
This was just how things were done in the late 1970s at our local riding stable. But all I learned from these lessons was to fear jumping.
As an adult, and by then a professional, I took quite a few jumping lessons, which improved my technique. But the fear remained. Horses that bucked or bolted or reared never scared me. Jumping did. I dutifully trotted and cantered the horses in my program over ground poles and cavalletti, because I knew it was good for them. But I never enjoyed doing it - until now.
This is Marino. Obstacles are his favorite thing, and the jump is his favorite obstacle. Marino is not the world’s most talented jumper, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm — which is contagious. Because he enjoys himself, I enjoy myself. Because he feels happy, I feel happy. After all these years, the fear is gone. Just like that. I have no ambition to ever jump anything higher than a cross rail, but feel ridiculously grateful to finally do that without anxiety.
Do you have any long-standing fears around riding or horses? What are they?
(Photo by Lauren Aston)

03/14/2026

When I was nineteen, I went to work for a successful Western Pleasure trainer. I had just moved from Germany to the US, full of idealism and passion for learning, excited about all things Western, excited about (finally!) getting to ride real Quarter Horses, excited to work for an AQHA world champion trainer. I thought, naively, that the draped reins I saw on Western Pleasure horses meant the horses worked in a less restricted fashion than the dressage horses I was used to seeing. I thought,just as naively, that all professional trainers loved horses as much as I did, and that earning a World Champion belt buckle proved the person wearing it practiced excellent horsemanship.
My time in the world of Western show horses taught me some valuable lessons, mostly about what not to do with horses. I remember my non-horsey boyfriend watching me show at the State Fair. I was proud to be there, finally competing instead of mucking and grooming. His comment? “These horses look like they’re hurting. Are they lame?”

I remember feeling offended, though I knew, deep down, that he was right. I had just spent a year of my life learning how to make horses go around in that exaggerated, crawling, crabbing way the Western Pleasure judges rewarded. Because I lived in a world where this way of moving was considered desirable, where thin twisted-wire bits and rock grinder spurs were considered normal tools, I did not see the pain I was causing. I saw, instead, the silver and the sequins, the shiny belt buckles, the glory and the accolades. But, at the same time, my peripheral vision registered disturbing images I could not unsee: horses with bloody mouths and spur marks. Blocked tails that could not express discomfort. Exhausted horses. Drugged horses. Unhappy horses. My nagging unease grew, until in could no longer stand it. I finally left that environment, in search for a healthier way of working with horses.
Fast-forward 35 years. I’ve since embraced my dressage roots once more, with a better understanding of contact, lightness, and the relationship between them. I love what dressage can do for horses. But my peripheral vision still registers disturbing images I cannot unsee, often at the highest level of a sport that is supposed to reward correct training: intimidated horses, performing tense movements, their eyes bulging, their mouths straining against tight nosebands. Unhappy horses. I am experiencing a nagging, disturbing sense of déjà vu.
I can see the allure of the show world, this time in the form of tall boots and bejeweled browbands, shiny black leather and white gloves. I can see dedicated riders trying to make their horses perform in an outline and way of moving that may not feel comfortable to most horses but will earn high scores, just like we did in Western Pleasure classes all those years ago.
Just like competitive dressage, Western Pleasure originally was meant to show off correct training. It started as a discipline to show off horses that were a pleasure to ride - relaxed, happy, moving naturally. By the time I helped train Western Pleasure horses, the discipline had become a sad travesty of its original purpose, unrecognizable from its description in the rule books. It took me a long time to see this, because I lived inside the cult-like Western horse show culture, where so much abuse was normalized for so long.
I don’t compete much anymore. I now look at the world of competitive dressage from the outside. I can see the good intentions, the genuine love for horses, the idealism, the hard work. But I can also see the questionable extremes that subvert the ideal of a happy athlete into an unhealthy exaggeration. I can see compromises being made in peoples’ minds. I can see ethical lines blurring. I can see lines getting crossed. I can see the slippery slope of progressive normalization.
What is the solution? Should we quit competing altogether? How can we keep horses in our lives, and the horse community from fracturing completely, while also being fair to the horses? How can we make competition a more horse-friendly endeavor? Changing the judging standards never seems to have much effect. Shaming competitive riders is definitely counterproductive.
Am I catastrophizing? Am I exaggerating? If not, what can we do? I look forward to your suggestions.

Katrin Silva Dressage

05/23/2026

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