Falling off can hurt. Duh, right? But it's not the physical pain of hitting the arena dirt that I want to talk about; it's the emotional stress and loss of confidence that I find to be the most painful part of a fall.
Two years ago my horse Rigil and I had a freak accident at the mounting block that resulted in four fractured vertebrae for me. Eight weeks later I was ready to get back in the saddle, so excited, but also terrified.
It took a few weeks of just getting up and sitting on Rigil while he was standing at the mounting block for me to get past the initial trauma. My heart rate tripled when I went to mount up and worst-case scenarios would flash through my mind. My amazing trainer spent quite a few lessons talking me through my nerves. The best piece of advice she gave me: “Just sit there and pet Rigil, notice how soft he is, how he smells, feel how he is relaxed and happy and let that peace flow into you”.
It was hard to get past that fear, but worth it, and we eventually got back to work. The struggle, however, wasn’t over. We would have good days and good rides where I felt really strong and confident. And then we would have days where the nerves crept back in and the fear took over. Little things, a small spook, a new jump in the arena, became huge issues in my mind. If Rigil looked at something even a little bit funny my mind would spiral to the worst-case scenario.
What if he panics? What if he bolts and I can’t control it? What if I fall and get hurt again?
These thoughts are in no way productive, but the deep rooted fear would bubble to the surface and take over. I knew that giving the reins over to these fears was just making everything worse. Rigil certainly knew I was afraid, which made him nervous and in turn actualized the fears my own mind had created.
Knowing that I have control over my mind and actually controlling those fears are two very different things though. To be completely honest it’s a battle I still fight. Some days are better than others, and sometimes the best I can ask of myself is that I keep trying.
These days I’ve learned that less is often more. That I shouldn’t stop to stare at that scary flower box. That I should stick to the plan and always keep riding. That I need to always try to be there to support Rigil. That looking down isn’t going to help either of us.
These things may seem obvious, but when you’re battling those deep fears, you often have to keep reminding yourself of the little things. For me, this means talking to myself when I ride. Listing out the steps I need to do to accomplish something. Telling myself out loud to look ahead to the next corner and not down at the spooky object on the wall. And, when all else fails and I know I’m starting to fall victim to my nerves, that’s when I sing a song to keep my mind busy and keep me moving forward.
One of the best things that came out of an otherwise horrible experience is the change it helped me make in my attitude. It's easy to compare yourself to other riders, to feel embarrassed about your perceived shortcomings, or to worry that others think you’re not good enough. But after all Rigil and I have been through, I really no longer care about how other people view my riding. If I'm scared when doing something others see as small or not a big deal, I say “whatever”. If I have to sing to myself, or talk it through to help me focus and keep the nerves at bay, I will do so, loudly. I do whatever helps me to be the rider Rigil needs me to be and I’ve stopped caring if others think I look silly doing it.
Am I happy I had such a rough fall? No, of course not. The work of rebuilding my confidence and pushing through my mental blocks is hard and painful and terrifying, not to mention ongoing. But am I grateful for the strength I've found in myself, the insight I've gained into my own mind, and the deeper bond it's given me and Rigil? Absolutely.