The struggle has been real. 

We are in the midst of a global pandemic, horse shows are getting cancelled or indefinitely postponed, and mayhem seems to surround us. 

And yet, the one thing that seems to be getting us through 2020 is the same thing that we can rely on through any ordeal – our horses. 

For those of us who compete, it was a moment in time to take a step back and fix problem spots.  For those of us who utilize this as a hobby, it was a moment in time to look inwards at our horsemanship and attempt to improve it.  And for those of us who sell, it was a moment to look outside of the box and find a way to better rehome, market, and place our equine companions. 

I was like so many of you.  In March, I had one of the nicest thoroughbreds that I had ever ridden sitting in my barn.  He was fully retrained, ready to compete, and entered in his first recognized event at Beginner Novice– only to have our world crumble underneath us.  And I watched as a pandemic chipped into my profit margin, all the while noticing that my options to advertise him became limited. 

I stopped jumping due to the fear of ending up in the hospital. I stopped advertising due to the concern of having strangers get injured while trying my 4 year old. And I stopped trying to sell this horse, unsure if anyone was even shopping in this pandemic.

But I also watched as racetracks shut down, horses required homes, and trainers struggled to keep a roof over their heads. It was the cruelest of twists –

Right as we needed to rehome, sell, and market the most – our marketing scheme had turned against us.

In previous years, my go-to had always been the various sales pages offered on Facebook.  Facebook groups like “OTTB Connect,” “Event Horses For Sale,” and “Area 8 Eventers” had always been an easy source of advertising for me, free to post on, and had a massive outreach in their hundreds of thousands of followers. And yet, when I went to upload the information about my carefully sourced, beautifully produced, and meticulously advertised horses – I found myself in “Facebook Jail.” Facebook had decided that animal sales were no longer allowed on their platform. A method to reduce animal trafficking, had actually led to a perilous place for the very people trying to keep these animals safe.

And with it, it created a punishment not only for me, but my reselling program Sewickley Stables, and specifically the horses within it.  

And we all do this for simply that – the horses. 

ENTER: OTTB United. 

I logged onto social media the other morning and saw that all of my buddies within the aftercare world were posting, sharing, and applauding this new app that had been developed just for people like us.  

• The people who do this for the love of the breed.
• The people laboring around the backside of racetracks, just trying to make certain that every horse got a fair shake.  
• And the people who put countless hours, weeks, months, and years in producing these horses into the second careers that we know they can thrive in.

This Facebook lockdown had caused thoroughbred advocates to realize that their ability to advertise their horses could mean actual life or death for at-risk horses, not to mention financial ruin if the resellers could not sell.  A horse rehomed/sold left a stall open for a horse at risk.

This app was not only developed by true thoroughbred enthusiasts to be used by actual thoroughbred enthusiasts, but also gives back to various thoroughbred aftercare organizations, including the Retired Racehorse Project (RRP), After the Finish Line, and others. 

So in knowing that I could trust the source, I quickly joined its ranks, and this is what I found:

For free, you can peruse all horse ads. You can evaluate each horse based on a variety of filters, including age, location, skill level, and height. And you can access race records, pedigrees, videos, and pictures of each horse of interest.

Additionally, You can also shop on the app for appropriate shippers, allowing for the east coast to meet the west. For free, you could find a horse, mediate the purchase of that horse, and then get him home. 

And if you wanted to access even more information? For only $4.99/month, you could upgrade to Premium, which was an obvious necessity for me. This allowed me to post pictures, videos, and facts about each of the sales horses in my barn. And not only that, but you were then linked back to social media to share these listings – utilizing the loophole of a 3^rd party website to advertise, market, and promote these amazing creatures in our care on the very social media platform that inhibited us. You can correspond with the various buyers to interact, allowing for a messenger board all of its own.

And for me? This was awesome. As someone who has just started her own facility (shout out Sewickley Stables) and selling three magnificent OTTBs (should out Judge Johnny, Flatten, and Panini), this was the missing link to my life. The whipped cream to my hot chocolate. The fried onions to my green bean casserole.

I can’t say enough good things about this app and was even more intrigued to discover that this is just the soft launch.  With little to no quirks, and a powerful herd of OTTB enthusiasts behind it, I can only imagine what the actual launch will afford us.  

An easy way to shop.  An inexpensive way to market.  And a superb way to connect. 

If you, or someone you know, is looking for their next upper level mount, a horse to teach lessons on, or just a statuesque creature in the pasture behind your house – then look no further.  

OTTB United is just that place.

A week ago today, I received a message that made my heart sink.

After months, if not years, of preparation, I was told that my entry to the long format Training Three Day event was actually rejected.  It was only a matter of hours before the jogs, and with that simple message, my singular goal of 2019 was crushed.

Now, to be clear, I knew this could happen. I had spent 2017 preparing for the T3D only to have a similar thing happen.  Because in 2017, you needed 4 MER’s (Minimum Eligibility’s) to qualify for the T3D.  This included a dressage test with a score lower than 50, a stadium test with no more than 16 penalties, and a XC test with no stop. And in 2017, I ended the year with 3 MERs, and a stupid stop on XC.

I was devasted.

I spent 2018 injured, and hit 2019 ready to regroup.  I ran around a bog at Midsouth Horse Trials in June to my 4th MER and thought “Yes, finally. I am in.” With that 4th MER, I also realized I was qualified for the move up to preliminary level, but knew that with an upcoming wedding and a less than ready brain, I would plan to stick to the training level.  I wanted another few MERs before I made that jump, and knew that a goal of a T3D was the perfect plan to route that move up.

Running around a bog.  Photo by Xpress Photo

I wanted to be ready.  I wanted to be prepared. I wanted to be safe.

But with AEC’s taking place in exchange for Kentucky Classique, and a bank account that limited my ability to travel, I had limited time to get ready for that T3D.

So I ran around another clean in September with a tough course at Flying Cross HT, my 5th MER. And I left that event thinking that I finally felt totally prepared. My demons were gone, my riding was there, and I felt like training level was a breeze.  I had been competing at this level on this horse since 2015.  We now had 5 MER’s. And I suddenly felt like preliminary was within reach, albeit with a long arm.

Another clean Training Level, and my 5th MER. Photo by Vics Pics

My trainer and I discussed my plan to that ultimate level.  It made sense to run around the T3D in October, and then maybe follow this with the elusive Modified in Virginia if I could afford it.  This would end my 2019 on a brave note, with a preliminary move up in 2020 if all went to plan.

Flash forward a few weeks, and I found out that the rules had changed. According to April 2019, you now needed 3 MERs and 1 MER with a 20….within the last 24 months. I had 2 MERs within 24 months, an additional at 25 months, and a 4th at 27. And although my entry had initially been accepted, ride times had been given, PTO time taken off, and steeplechase lessons been taken, my goal was vanished.

I won’t go into the intricate details of my emails, phone calls, and visits with both USEF and USEA to clarify the rules that were written in 3 different ways on 3 different websites. And I won’t go into the tears and heart break that this brought me.

Because what I want to focus on is the safety.

Immediately after I was told that my entry was not accepted for the T3D, the show secretary graciously reached out to me and offered to get me into the regular horse trial. She didn’t want my weekend to be a bust, and knew how little I had the time and money to compete.

And then she asked me: Did I want to go training? Or did I want to run around preliminary?

And my eyes grew wide. My mouth grew tense. And my fingers clenched.

Because we as a sport claim that we are getting safer. That our rules are there to protect the horses and riders.  The research is being done to improve the fences and the safety equipment. And the data is going into improving all of the above.

We claim to change the sport to better it. And yet in this very moment, I was being told that the rules had failed.  I was told that I could not enter an event at the very level that I had been competently competing at for almost 5 years, but that I was deemed “safe” by USEA/USEF standards to jump 4″ higher.

Happily jumping 1.10m in the arena. Not so happy outside.  Photo by Winslow.

I walked the course of the regular training, and noticed that the open training course was 95% the same as the T3D – a course that I knew I was fully capably of tackling.  And I looked left and right, focusing on the green numbers to see if I felt any differently. To see if I felt braver. If I felt ready. And I knew that I was not.

Had I been braver, or maybe stupider, I could have said yes.  I could have ran out of the preliminary start box with my middle finger up and a war cry. I could have kicked around the first 10 fences and pulled up when I felt inadequate.  Or I could have kept kicking and eventually fallen.  Eventually hit the ground.  Eventually got hurt. Or even died.

Because with the invention of social media, the risk is always present.  I read of the three deaths within the last few months and gasped.  I watched as my friends and my fellow riders shattered pelvises and spines.  I stared as the Facebook statuses of another horse rotating over a non collapsible fence were published. And I watched us send prayers, well-meant messages, and even dollars by GoFundMe’s.

And each time, I felt sick. Unsure of why I even did this sport. Unsure of if I was willing to take the risk.

I refused to be pressured into something that I deemed MYSELF unready for. I refused to be another statistic to the masses of people who deem us both insane and unethical.  I refuse to be the reason that the comment section on Eventing Nation lit up for the millionth time after a rider fall. Where the haters screamed that we were inhumane, while we responded that we did what we loved. What the horses loved.

That we try to do what’s best for our animals and our students, while USEA, USEF, and FEI create the rules to hold us accountable to those measures.

Only this time they didn’t.

This time, the rules changed in a way that made no sense.

And I have to wonder why?  Why are we limiting access to those long format events that we declare are so essential to the education of our young competitors who never got to experience them.  People like me who studied day in and day out to learn about the vet box, to learn about the phases of Roads and Tracks. The people who asked their trainer for a lesson on properly jogging a horse, and brought out their old rusty watch to relearn minute markers.

We used to claim that the T3D was the perfect move up for preliminary because you encountered a maxed XC course, a difficult dressage test, and a championship stadium course.  It was a way to learn of our history while preparing for our future, and in doing so, we broadened our continuing education of the sport we loved so much.

But while I was deemed ready for that move up to preliminary, in the same sentence I was told that I was not deemed worthy of the T3D.  The fact that this message was sent the day of jogs was just the icing on the cake.

Yes, our governing bodies screwed up.  Maybe my entry should have never been accepted in the first place (it was).  Maybe my rule book should have been updated in May 2019 instead of January 2019 (it was not).  Maybe USEA should have deleted their website page from February 2019 where they had the qualifications described in a way with which I was qualified (they had not).  And maybe USEF should have responded to my emails sent 5 weeks ago for clarification (they did not).

Maybe I should have never entered an event at a level I felt 100% capable of completing and instead took the risk and competed at the next level that I was not ready for.

Or maybe I should just stop entering at all.

I want to continue to love eventing. I want to continue to defend eventing.  I want to be able to scream to the naysayers that we are doing whats best for our horses, and whats best for our riders.

So I propose a few things.

1. The rules need to make sense.  The rules need to allow our members to do events that they are capable of while still increasing entries and membership retainment. Let our members experience these long format events that we keep saying are so far lost.  Let the requirements to get into them be minimal if the courses are not going to be harder. Let the education increase.
2. The rules need to only change for one reason: safety. You should not be able to qualify to move a level up and not be allowed to compete at the same height that you have been at for years.  This was truly the aspect of this weekend that frustrated me the most. It made absolutely no sense. And it was dangerous.
3. Additionally, they need to go into action on January 1st of that calendar year and stay the same for the following 12 months. We have seen this happen with bits, we have seen this happen with faults.  If we are to decide on new rules, than they need to be simple to find, simple to follow, and simple to enact.

I am so saddened that my educational opportunity got taken away from me. But I know that I still left that start box on Saturday prepared. I still left that start box safe.  And I still crossed the finish flags with a huge smile on my face.

But maybe I’m more saddened because I can no longer trust my governing bodies as the ones with their heads screwed on straight, I can only trust myself.  I myself made the safe decision.  I myself decided that I was unready to move up. I myself kept my wits about me throughout the drama.

I am also sad because I can no longer say that one day I will do a T3D, because now my goals have circumvented it.  There are so few offered every year as it is, and they are not inexpensive to be entered in.  By the time the next one that I can afford rolls around, I will have hopefully already moved up to modified and then possibly preliminary.  But this will happen when I am fully ready. When I deem myself safe.

A goal that was one of mine for 3 years now is gone, an educational opportunity lost.  But in its place, I received an education into the ropes, hoops, political BS, and inadequacy of the very people we trust to govern us.  That needs to change.  Conversations need to be had.  And rules need to be in place to keep us safe.

Only then will this sport be one worth fighting for.  Worth competing in.  Worth loving.  I want to love it, and I know you do too.

Loving this sport. Photo by Vic’s Pics

I love thoroughbreds.

I love watching them gallop at seemingly g-Force type speeds whether it is over a manicured racetrack, a hilly paddock, or the laneways of a 5* event.

I love breeding them. The miticulous veterinary care and painstaking attention to detail. The veterinary science and research that goes into every ultrasound, therapeutic, and cover. And then that tiny black dot on the screen and another fist bump across the machine.

I love foaling them. The 2am phone calls leading to a scramble for Carhartts and car keys. A race against the clock as you cruise 60mph around the farm. And then the quick presentation of a white leg followed by a brown muzzle. The wiping of amniotic fluid from nostrils and holding a knee under ribs to sit sternal.

I love watching them walk within 30 minutes.

And run within a day.

I love watching them grow. They stand with the same presence at 60 days as they do at 6 years. They learn about social hierarchy as quickly as they learn about sweet feed. They assess the farrier monthly with the same inquisitive mind as they assess the Labrador retriever sharing their dinner.

I love prepping them. 75 days of beautification. Their coats glisten and their muscles ripple, every fiber of which shows what good management, good nutrition, and good exercise can do. Not drugs. Not steroids. No gimmick, nothing skipped.

I love watching them sell. Staring up at the screen as the 0’s accumulate and the smiles widen. A yearling who has never been off of its birth place standing calmly and proudly inside a crazed ring full of men and women snapping photos and raising hands. Showcasing that same inquisitive sensible nature that was born into them.

I love watching them be broke. The first surcingle, their first girth. They turn their head and nip at the first paddock booted foot that applies pressure to their barrel. The first time they recognize the partnership with the rider sitting upon them as they trot the hills and realize their are more speeds besides 0 and 60.

I love watching their first race. Will they feel that heart and competitive drive of their mother, father, and the 50 generations before them? Will they dig deep and find that 2nd, 3rd, and 4th gear? Will they break clean and finish strong? Will their ears be up as they break free from the group and open to their stride as they open the distance between them and the rest?

I love watching their last race. I love watching the grooms who have poured every ounce of sweat and tears into mixing grain and massaging muscles hug their necks for the last time as they load them onto my trailer. Some to return to the very farm where they took their first breath. Some to return to the very breeding shed where they were made. Others to the arena behind my barn. To learn how to gallop all over again, this time towards a XC fence. Their inquisitiveness responding to water, ditches, and banks.

I love tucking them into their stalls on a cold winter night and awakening them for their first horse show. Braided and gleaming, new muscles on different places. Ready for the next adventure.

I love thoroughbreds.

Thoroughbreds have kept me fed. Thoroughbreds have sheltered me. Thoroughbreds have picked me up at my lowest of lows, and saved my life when I didn’t think a life was worth living. Thoroughbreds have gotten me out of bed after disastrous nights, and put me to sleep after long and draining days.

Media would have you believe that thoroughbreds are surrounded by greed, money, and drugs. But those aren’t the thoroughbreds I know. Mine are surrounded by hard working men and women, steady hands and booted feet, pasture mates and babysitters and most of all, love.

A few weeks ago, I presented some of my research at the Society for Theriogenology’s annual conference in Savannah, GA.

I was speaking on a topic I am both super passionate about as well as quite knowledgeable-the inflammatory response to bacterial infections during pregnancy in the horse. It is the reason I went to graduate school in the first place. It combines my three passions: immunology, reproduction, and horses. And I knew I was prepared.

I was in the competitive category, having been selected as one of the top abstracts of the conference. And I got on that stage and started my talk. I knew that I knew my data. I had done the entire experiment myself, from the lab work to the statistics, and I could answer any question.

But halfway through my presentation, I heard myself slip. I had stammered over a word choice. Two slides later, and I forgot to explain my x and y axis.

But, I rallied. I regrouped. I kept going. I answered the tough questions received and walked off the stage to a fist pump from my fellow lab mate and a hug from my intern.

But the minute that the applause ended, I started analyzing.

It was good, but had it been great? It was well done, but had it been perfect?

Instead of focusing on the 99.9% that had gone well, I felt stuck. I shook my head at myself for having tripped over that word. I smacked my leg at realizing that I could have described that graph more coherently.

And instead of being thrilled at a great presentation on a massive stage, I felt frustrated.

I refused to hear the congratulations. I refused to let their compliments sink in. And instead, I focused on the negative.

Less than a day later, I found out that I won the entire competition.

I went up on the stage, accepted the applause and the check that came with it, smiled for approximately thirteen seconds, and then immediately sank into a funk.

Yes, I had won. But I hadn’t been perfect. I didn’t feel it was deserved. It could have been better. I could have been better.

There is something to be said for a personality like mine. One that fixates on the minute negative instead of celebrating the majority of good. It carries from work, to sport. From hobby to my occupation.

And I feel it trickle towards everything from my friendships to my riding.

I can leave a stadium round where every single rail stayed up and still be upset that I chipped to the 8th.

I can walk off of double clean XC where my horse was happy and healthy and still fixate on his hesitation to the water.

And I can sit and pause over videos, acknowledging a tail swish or an ear pin more than a fluid lateral movement or cadenced gait.

We as equestrians are asked to pay attention to details. It’s engrained in us from such a young age. Stalls are picked immaculately. White breeches stay starched and clean. Bandages without wrinkles and tails without sawdust.

We are scored by the movement or the jump so that we can break down the good and the bad. And we use these scores to improve upon what we err’d.

And yet, at times, it’s not healthy.

At times, we need to find happiness in the overall picture.

To look at a ride as a cohesive unit, instead of 20 different transitions, 3 different gaits, and 2 halts.

To look at a XC course as a round over 6 minutes instead of 20 obstacles and two lines.

And to look at our time spent with our horses as years in total and not one bad ride, one injured limb, or one bad show.

The fixation on the minutiae needs replaced with the overwhelming feeling of accomplishing a goal; no matter how small it is.

Relishing in the walk to that podium. Feeling praise in that fist bump. And holding on for an extra second or two to that hug from a friend.

Only then can we truly appreciate the journey that is life. And especially life in this sport.

I know I gave a damn good talk. I know I had a great XC school. I know I improved my dressage test.

And I know I am going to try to work on fixating on the joy of the bigger picture. Are you?

I posted a video of me flatting a fresh off the track thoroughbred yesterday and was immediately messaged by a stranger telling me that my stirrups were uneven.

New baby OTTB

Two years ago, I posted a sales ad only to be asked by a potential buyer why I look down the entire ride.

And 4 years ago, I posted a photo of my toughest horse in jest of a particularly hard ride, only to have a massage therapist tell me he was obviously in pain.

And each time, I just wonder why I even share my life at all.

Don’t get me wrong, I know that this blog and my social media which accompany it are partly to blame. My actions are part of the problem.

I also know that in order to place, sell, and locate as many horses as I do that I need this social media.

I try to share the highs and lows. I am the first person to admit my faults and flaws. I am not the best rider. I am not the best retrainer. I am not the best blogger. And I sure as hell am not the best person.

But I open up my life and my experiences to so many because of the occasional message of happiness. The teenager who tells me that they look up to me. The college aged kid who says that my podcast taught her something. The young rider who comes up to me at a show and asks what it takes to get a PhD.

And in exchange, I share.

But rarely have I asked for critique on my position, or suggestions on my horses health.

Because I have an amazing trainer. And a superb veterinarian. An unreal farrier. A moody husband. And a crew of feisty and fierce friends.

I go to these ladies when I need horse advice. And for my wedding.

Trust me, I get enough of their solicited advice.

And most of the time, I even pay for it (some in beer).

But we as equestrians find some sick happiness in picking apart our rides. We rank the best ridden fence on Eventing Nation. We ask fellow equestrians to Judge My Ride. We submit videos for viewing and pictures for editing, but at the end of the day, all of these things are chosen by the only person who’s opinion matters: our own.

We love criticism, and we readily access it.

Just think-we vie for ribbons, but we race to the stack of tests to see what the judges comments were.

We seek out ratings, but regard the raters written criticism.

But the difference between that and social media? In each of those scenarios, we chose to be critiqued.

No one chooses to open their Facebook messages to be picked apart. No one asks for a random person to chime in on what they perceived as a beautiful, cute, or funny post.

And no one should have to.

So why don’t we all as a group agree to leave the unsolicited advice in the back of our minds, where it belongs. Judge the things that are selected to be judged and answer the questions that are beseeching for advice.

But upon stumbling upon a photo, video, or blog that is simply a show of happiness, sadness, or somewhere in the middle, leave the words of wisdom alone. Lift your fellow rider up, and sympathize when they are down. Give a high five in person or a ❤️ over the inter webs, and leave the advice to those who are getting paid the big bucks.

Trust me, we all could use that.

For the past three years, I have tried to get down South for some spring training.

Two years ago, I ran out of money.

Last year, I ran out of time.

And this year, life happened.

Each time, I hang my head and resign myself to longer road hacks in the freezing cold while the arena sheens with ice.  Each time, I throw the heavy weight on my mount while shoving hand warmers in my gloves. And each time, I admit that I will not be ready for that first event in April.

And I get so frustrated.

Frustrated at myself, frustrated at life. Frustrated with the consequences of my decisions, and frustrated that I feel alone in this predicament. I watch videos of 18 year olds who are funded by mom and dad galloping in the Ocala sunshine.  I see photos of amateur horses under the tutelage of 5* riders for months on end.  I watch as others progress up the levels while I feel myself remaining stagnant. And I feel jealousy, anger, pain, abandonment.  Alone and like no one else understands. Even though in my head, I know so many are worse off than I and that no ones path is perfect.

And I just don’t know how to change it. Alter that route.  Reroute the outcome.

A couple of months ago, I sat talking to the mother of a friend about life.  It had nothing to do with horses, but simply family, friends, and everything in between. The last few months had been filled with what felt like landmines in life, and I just didn’t understand why these catastrophic things were always within my life.  When would the illnesses end?  When would everyone I loved be healthy?  When would everyone I loved be happy?

I lament about how life was unfair, how it was tougher on some more than others. How I felt at times like the bricks were stacked against me, and that I felt like there was no other option than halting and staring, or pivoting away.

And she told me something that stuck.

I can’t change the cards I have been dealt, but I can change how I play them.

I can’t control my situation in its entirety, but my situation surely isn’t the worst, and I am far from the worst case scenarios.

So I brought this idea into my lesson last week, when my trainer had finally arrived back from sunny Aiken.

She asked if I was entered in Spring Bay, and I said no.  Again, life would get in the way. My best friend was getting married that weekend, and standing beside Amy on the biggest day of her life certainly trumped running around the first event of the year.

Been standing by this girl since rust breeches were in style…

She asked if I would be able to get to Aiken in April or May and I said that I hoped so, but that I needed to start my research projects before I would know.  The life of a scientist is tricky, and moreso, the life of a researcher who studies equine reproduction is unpredictable.  I wouldn’t know if my mares were foaling until merely hours before they did. But, my impact on the future of equine reproduction was more important than schooling some XC fences.

Equine Reproduction Research

So we talked.  About how little of a spring season I may have, and what this could mean.

More importantly, how this wasn’t the end of the world, and how I could still have a great 2019 without it.

Because during our talk, I realized something.

Every year, I get so frustrated with myself that I try to come out hard in the spring.  I enter all of the shows, and demand that we be ready to “move up” in some way or another. Whether it is finally tackling that elusive preliminary event, or getting to 1.20m in the jumpers.  Whether it shifts to that bronze medal, or even just in doing a hunter show.  It’s always changing, and its never worked.

I burn out by August, and I usually end up with a September and October that amount to nothing.

The months when the weather is the best.  When my horse is his most fit.  When I am my most ready.

When we are feeling good.

And more importantly, six months away from now. A time the has time.

I don’t need Ocala or Aiken to get to the fall.  I don’t need an indoor arena to prep for those shows.  I don’t need excessive money to keep kicking along through the summer.

Six months away sounds plausible. Six months of long summer days, intense lessons when I can afford them, and smaller prep shows.

And maybe more importantly, six months of fun.

Costume class of a hunter pace?  Sign me up. 

Fun that sounds exciting. Six months of hacks with my girlfriends.  Six months of soul soothing flats sound great.  And six months of exciting XC schools with my best friend Mak sounds even better.

We can’t avoid life.

We can’t demand more time.

And we can’t control the next big expense that pops up.

But we can control our outlook on these things.  We can choose to not be defeated and keep our heads up.  We can reroute the roads that lead to there and redo the plans. We can readjust our expectations and rerun the list to get there.

More importantly, we can decide to keep it fun.

And at the end of the day, isn’t that what got us all to this place?  A love of the creatures that we chose as partners and the time we spend with them.  The thrill of galloping down to a big table. 1, 2, 3 and over. A perfect leg yield. A square halt.  Finally getting that change, and finally keeping that left leg on.

1, 2, 3 and over.  Photo by JJ Sillman. 

But also, finally squeezing in that hack as the sun sets.  Getting to the barn at dusk when it is quietest and you are all alone.  The only noise being horses happily munching on timothy and happy breaths of cool spring air.

That should be enough. And that doesn’t cost any money, will be there at any time, and is so essential to life.

I was speaking to my friend Brooke the other day when the conversation quickly turned to one of our most frequent laments….selling horses.

The process of retraining thoroughbreds is quite near and dear to both of our hearts, and we quickly became friends through our journeys at the Retired Racehorse Projects Thoroughbred Makeover, a process that I have blogged often about.

And we admit that retraining these magnificent creatures has given us purpose, has strengthened our riding, and has opened doors to us that we never knew possible.

But as is life, if we are to continue to pay it forward to numerous other horses with our retraining, we are forced to sell or rehome the majority of those that we lay hands on, which allows us to open a stall and a place for the next steed to benefit from the process.

It is simple math – one in, and one out.  But it also is what leads us into our least favorite aspect of the process: The Horse Sale.

And as we lament about the long messages answered, the tire kickers and the overzealous parents, the trials cancelled, and the ridiculous price negotiations, one other part of the process came up which annoyed us both.

The question that was asked time and time again. Over and over.

What exactly are you training him for?

Now Brooke and I both come from diverse worlds – she having grown up in the breed world riding in varying forms of tack, while I ran up the ranks of western disciplines, and added some rodeo, before we both became eventers.

So while we appear as though to be simply eventers now, we are always perturbed and confused by the question. And maybe we are different.  Maybe we are unique.  Because we are not limited by the discipline in which we actively compete in, and therefore neither are our horses. So we both agreed…

We are not training for a DISCIPLINE.

We are training the horse for LIFE.

I may be considered simply an eventer, but I can guarantee that my exposure of that sales horse to a coop on the cross country course will benefit it in the hunters.  I may be schooling dressage today, but I can guarantee you that those haunches in that I just taught this horse will help him in reining.  And I may have just gone for a walk hack to check out the sights and scenes while cooling out, but you’ll thank me later if you ever want to do endurance.

And more importantly, I do not take on these horses thinking that they will all fit into my wheelhouse, and that was no more true than when I attempted to make Nixon an eventer that entire first year that he just wanted to dance in the sandbox.

Nixon just wanted to dance. Photo by Melissa Bauer-Herzog

But if you are truly good at this retraining business, and truly in it for the betterment of the horse, than you will quickly realize that the end goal isn’t that the horse fits your hopes and dream, but rather that your lifetime of education around these horses will allow that horse to have hopes and dreams of his own.

And I think of this each time that I get a horse, and begin this process over and over again.

What are the fundamentals?  What can I teach this horse that is important?

And not important for eventing, or dressage, or hunters, or even western pleasure.

What are the fundamentals of simply riding?

It isn’t a piaffe or a puissance that will guarantee these horses a safer future.  It isn’t a 10 on an extended trot, or a 1D barrel run. It isn’t rearing on command or laying down to be mounted.

Training a horse to simply be a good horse.  Photo by Taylor Pence

It is simply usability.  Rideability. Trainability. Good manners and easiness to be around.

I don’t get on these horses and put them into a frame just because they look prettier in the sales pictures.  I do it because it is teaching them to move off of my leg and accept contact on their mouth.

I don’t only road hack to take pictures of manicured stone walls with perky ears in between, I do it because it exposes them to being off property, seeing scary objects, and responding with the appropriate attitude.

I don’t work with the horses daily just to keep them tired, I do so because on a daily basis there is something else that they can be exposed to – whether it is at a walk or a gallop.

And I don’t ask them to learn anything that I wouldn’t expect from every horse. And this can be as simple as loading onto a trailer, or as complex as an in and out.

We as trainers or horsemen box these horses too quickly and too easily.  And I admit that I have caught myself doing the same thing.  I have gotten on that horse for their first ride and been sure that they will end up a hunter simply because of how they move, only to realize two months later just how far from the truth that can be as they see their first XC fence.  I have watched horses move in the field and assumed they will be superb in dressage, only to realize after popping over a crossrail just how much they love jumping.  And I have free jumped horses who have unlimited scope, only to watch them revolt once fillers are added and a human swings on.

Everyone thinks Mak should be a hunter…

And that is why my strategy for this crazy game of retraining these thoroughbreds is more simple. Less quarantined.  More open.

Remove my expectations from the equation.

Remove my bias from the equation.

And train usable skills.

Skills as simple as calmly assessing new situations. Being ridden alone or in a group. And even ground manners.

And skills that may seem advanced or of a single discipline, but are truly applicable across the board.  Moving off of the riders leg.  Accepting contact. Being exposed to foreign places and foreign concepts. Adjustability.

Road hacking my eventers to increase bravery.

I am not training the horse to utilize those skills simply to be an eventer, they are just the things that I have found lead to success in eventing.  But in exchange, none of these skills will take away from the training for future success in any other arena, and they all can enhance that process.

You can lengthen the stride across the diagonal in a dressage test at the preliminary level of eventing, but you also lengthen the stride of the canter as you see your distance in the hunters.  You ask your horse to do shoulder-in at second level of dressage, but you also need that shoulder-in as you round the barrel of your pattern. And you ask for adjustability in the canter to put a 5 in a 6 stride line in the jumper ring, but you also constrict and contract that stride as you charge the ball in polo.

And you need a distance, a tempo, bravery, and a lead change whether you are doing hunters, jumpers, eventing, foxhunting, or anything else requiring a fence.

So no, we do not need to specify that we are training that horse to be a hunter.  And in contrast, we do not need to specify that we are training them to event.

Especially not during those pivotal first few months.

Instead, we need to focus on training them for life.

Those life skills that are needed for all disciplines, and all horses. Skills that are translatable and useful.

By getting out of our own heads, out of our own worlds, and out of our own comfort zones, we can then truly put the horse first.  And by putting the horse first, we open a whole new world of opportunities.  These opportunities might make us feel as though we are teaching our horses more.  Broadening their education and therefore both their ability in addition to their price.  But at the end of the day, maybe these opportunities are truly their to train us. To open our eyes and allow us to fully understand what equestrianism is.  What horsemanship is.

And when that happens, we all benefit. Us, and the horses that brought us here.

Photo by JJ Sillman.