Believe me when I say that I like to be in control.

Those who know me well enough to keep their mouths shut might describe me in less generous terms. I like to be in charge, I like to know what’s next, and I most certainly don’t like surprises.

So when I began riding horses at (ahem) a later age in life, I found myself in a bit of a conundrum. When boosted up onto a large, flighty, sometimes unpredictable animal, my control instincts went into overdrive. I think this is why dressage appeals to female riders my age: there are rules to be followed. Tests. Timelines. Clear measurements of success. It was created by the Germans, for goodness sake.

In fact, I think the first commandment of dressage is, “There shall be no wild galloping of horses.” A cowboy friend (aka a wild galloper of horses) gleefully described us dressage riders as “micromanaging, tight-assed control freaks,” or something along those lines.

And indeed, I wanted to micromanage movement: both mine and my horse’s. I wanted to control the speed and rhythm of the trot. Control the bend. Control his position. Control my position. Gimme control!

Riding felt like having 20 plates spinning in the air, and I couldn’t let one thing get away from me. It was a tense balancing act, and I was constantly on a wire. Needless to say, I also did not have very much fun.

Despite my best efforts to ruin riding for myself, I began to have brief “a-ha moments,” where I would feel like it was easy. There was a lightness and connection with my horse that felt unforced. I felt like I was flying. I loved that feeling and I began riding for it. I realized that I was going to have to get out of my horse’s way and let him move like a horse, adjusting myself to him.

I began to chant in my head: Relax. Breathe. Ride with your heart. Relax. Breathe. Ride with your heart.

There was an immediate change in his body language. He became less stiff and evasive. He was free to move and really began to open up for me. He began to listen to my legs and my body. And there was a change in me: I went from feeling like I was precariously perched on top of a 1200lb animal to feeling like we were one unit with one common movement.

Rather than trying to shove and wedge him through the doors I wanted him to go through (connection, bend, straightness, rhythm), I shifted my focus to opening doors for him. Rather than micromanaging 25 things I wanted of him, I made it easy: we’re just going to move together- forward and with fluidity.

It takes a lot of trust on my part to let go of the control. It requires confidence in him and his training, and a belief in myself and my instinct. It’s something I have to work on continuously. I remind myself that control is an illusion, a wisp. It’s like trying to hold onto a cloud.

Instead of closing down and holding tighter, I must open up: chest, heart, hips, mind. I have to hold everything a little looser.

Now as I ride, I’m quick to realize when I’m being drawn into battles. Instead of taking them all on, I know immediately to take a breath and bring the focus back to relaxing and opening doors: both to my heart and his.

Man, he’s a little snorty and fussy today.

Wow, he sure is muscular. Yikes. Especially his running and bucking muscles.

Oh, look at that. He pinned his ears at the saddle.

Speaking of saddles, why did I decide to pursue English riding again? There’s nothing to hold on to if things go wrong…

I often wish I would have started riding when I was a kid, when I had no fear and it didn’t hurt so much to fall. At (ahem) 40+ years, I am acutely aware of the risks of perching on the back of a 1200 pound prey animal, who’s first instinct is, “Run first, ask questions later.” I’ve never been the type to think too long about risk; heck, I hopped on a wobbly paddle board in the middle of an icy cold reservoir for the first time yesterday with my kids. I didn’t give it a second thought; it sounded fun!

But horses…as much as I love them, I have to make myself walk out the door and saddle up. Most days, I have to swallow a lump of fear in my throat and take a deep breath to keep from blacking out before I put my foot in the stirrup. I am aware of the actual, physical pain that can result from falling off a horse.

When I was a kid, I fell off and broke my arm. I spent Easter Sunday in surgery. As an adult, I’ve been bucked off, I’ve fallen off, I’ve had horses spook from right underneath me (picture Wiley Coyote in mid air before he drops off of the cliff, eyes wide open, wondering why the ground disappeared).

In the last two years, I’ve had skin scraped off, toes stepped on, back wrenched in ways that have made me walk like an old woman for a week, bruises on my rear…and it takes a lot longer to get over injury at 42!

So, when I say I get a little frightened when saddling up my big, young horse, who’s made of 100% muscle and 1000% flight instinct, there’s a reason.

So, the obvious question is, WHY? Why do I keep pursuing something that frightens me and has risk of pain? This quote sums it up:

“When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.” -Audre Lord

I have a vision. It keeps me up at night.

It started with seeing my closest friends, who’ve been on horses since before they could talk. Watching them ride is watching the beauty of motion. It’s watching Oneness, a dance. It’s like observing the physical manifestation of grace. There’s no way to tell where these girls end and their horses begin.

I want that.

I don’t want to feel like a bouncing sack of wet cement on top of a horse. I want that precision. I want that glassy polish in the canter, the gentle communication at the walk. I want my horse to want to listen to me, looking for leadership and direction.

But the only way to develop the strength it takes to be a horsewoman is to, well, be a horsewoman. There are no shortcuts. It takes miles in the saddle and time getting to know my horse’s buttons and quirks. It’s hours of mucking and brushing and listening to the language of the Great Beast.

But isn’t this the beauty of pursuing a passion? Some of the happiest, most satisfied people I know are those who discover a little inkling of something they might be good at: painting, volleyball, throwing a barbell around, writing poetry, dancing, training dogs…and they dare to be powerful. They risk injury, risk looking like a fool, risk money in pursuit of their vision.

These are the people I admire. This is who I want to be. And so, even though fear is literally making a buzzing noise in my head, I saddle up.

Fear can paralyze or empower. It’s just a matter of which I choose today. It’s also a matter of deciding if the end result is worth the trouble.

But oh, the reward. Each time I ride, there is a moment where I have wings; where I just have to think and he hears my mind and responds. Those moments light a fire in me that burn brighter than the fear of risk and pain. Those are the moments that keep me coming back for more, that make me feel like the fear doesn’t matter.

The fit was impressive to watch, really. And, since I was watching from between his ears and on his back, it was a little frightening as well. Sitting on 1200lbs of pissed-off muscle that has the ability to run record-breaking speeds and throw your ass a dozen yards across the arena is not exactly where you want to be as a rider.

But there I was…pretending I didn’t notice his pinned ears and swishing tail. I was ignoring the saliva dripping down my cheek from where his head tossing had drenched me.

Was I asking him to perform some impressive feat? No.

Was I whipping him? No.

Was I asking him to work hard? No.

Is he abused? No. In fact, he’s quite spoiled.

I was asking him to focus and cooperate. I was asking him to complete a task that he could manage in his sleep with one hoof tied behind his back. But he had a bad case of the “don’t wannas”.

So, around and around we went. He pushed himself into a complete lather, working ten times harder than he had to and twenty times harder than I was asking of him. I smiled, ignored the antics, tried not to fall off, stood my ground and sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” to keep from losing my cool.

The second he gave me some effort and cooperation, we quit. I patted his neck, hopped off, gave him a big hug and a kiss and removed the saddle. He buried his nose into my chest, took a deep breath, then looked at me with eyes that said, “Is that all it took?”

Yes, buddy. That’s all it took. You just had to lean in and trust me.

This horse’s name is Compass. I named him Compass because he is leading me home. He’s my True North. He is me, in four-legged, furry form. He fights the unimportant things and he can be passive aggressive. He’s loving and goofy…when he feels like it…and a complete asshat when he feels like it. He has the ability to be awesome, when he’s not being lazy. This is an embarrassingly familiar personality.

So, while he was stomping his feet like a toddler, I was learning something about myself:

Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Things are easier than you’re making them out to be.

Stubbornness and over thinking makes things harder.

Lean into what’s being asked of you and trust the process.

Be yourself. Even if you know you’re acting ridiculous, commit to being you until a different way appears.

When you finally get it, give someone who loves and understands you a hug. Tomorrow is a new day to try again.