A few weeks ago I sat at a pre-clinic potluck, politely shoving chocolate into my face and trying to look like I wasn’t just crashing a barn’s dinner with Sarah Martin (I swear I didn’t realize it was a clinic thing and I did bring a dish so hopefully I wasn’t too big an imposition...). Over dinner, Sarah told us a bit about her equestrian background, which started in endurance riding, then eventing, then cutting and Arab shows, and--eventually--dressage. Though listening to Sarah taught me a lot about riding itself and the biomechanics of equestrianism, my biggest takeaway was twofold: you can do all kinds of different riding and you can change disciplines no matter how old you are.
As an Existential Eventer, I spend a lot of time worrying about my identity as an eventer. Do I have the right to use that hashtag on Instagram when I haven’t been to an event in two years and Dizzy’s never seen so much as a mini trial? And I’m not even sure if she ever will? And that for an eventer, I spent an awful amount of time showing straight dressage, doesn’t that make me a dressage rider? Could I call myself that too? Or instead? What are the rules here? Who enforces them? No one? Am I worrying for nothing? Oh no.
Ultimately, I decided to introduce myself to new friends as an eventer because nothing, not trail rides or dressage shows or a fun barrel run, makes me as happy as being at a three day event. I love that feeling of finishing dressage and knowing I have two jumping courses ahead of me. I love writing my OT on my arm and I love walking my cross country course three times (once with the trainer, once with a friend, once alone) So I figured that’s what I am in my heart.
Except... I’m not eventing. I’m not eventing because I don’t have the money to show or the confidence in Dizzy’s brakes to take her out without a good schooling day first. So if I’m banking my identity on eventing and I’m not eventing, have I lost a piece of myself?
My good friend Bailey (@joyful_dressage) recently wrote about the pressure to go down centerline, concluding:
It’s easy to get caught up in the excitement of showing. It all seems glamorous, especially with lovely show photos of well turned out horses, following scoring, ribbons and qualifications. I love the atmosphere, especially when it is supporting friends like Erin at AECs or helping at inspections. But the real work is not done in the arena. The real work is done in the training at home. My aspirations are the same, but my self-imposed expectations have shifted and continue to the longer we stay away. So, when people ask “when are you going to show again?” I’ve started responding with “when we want to,” no longer “when we’re ready.”
Bailey is wise, probably because she spends more time listening than she does talking (which is also part of what makes her such a good friend.) So I took the time to take her words to heart, to think about this idea of showing when you want to vs. when you’re ready.
My first thought was “but I’m ready now! Put me in coach, let’s do it!” But being ready means so much more than knowing we can competently navigate a dressage test or jump a mostly clear round. Being ready means being able to spend the money on show fees without feeling incredibly guilty and it also means knowing I’ve set Dizzy up for success. If there’s one way my former trainers rubbed off on me, it’s an extremely conservative attitude in the show ring. This means always showing one level below what you’re schooling at home. This means not taking Dizzy out for intro dressage until she’s comfortable with training dressage. There’s pros and cons to this approach, but I can say all my worst shows happened when I was showing at the highest level at which I could ride. So I stick with this strategy, knowing it means staying home and waiting patiently for the stars to align and for her canter to develop. I am an eventer, I am, just...not as much right now.
So that’s how I’ve left things in my mind, my anxious little mind which really prefers to have neat labels on as many things as possible. But what does that have to do with Sarah Martin?
Sarah didn’t start riding dressage seriously until she was an adult. It wasn’t until then that she found her love within a love, her passion for the longevity of dressage. This also means she spent many years calling herself all kinds of different types of rider and diving into what she had available. I’ve done that a bit with my adventures in barrel racing (soon to be off hiatus!) but could never imagine calling myself a barrel racer. But what if I did? What if I embraced the time and place I’m experiencing now and let myself be a different kind of rider? I’m sort of famous for saying everything is temporary, so why not take on an interim equestrian title?
Honestly, because that sounds pretty terrifying. It’s nice to go chase cans for an evening and then go back to schooling dressage the next day because I know how to do that and it’s comfortable. As I write this, I realize how easily made uncomfortable I am, how much I rely on a safe space in riding to feel confident. I’m not sure if that’s “good” or not and I don’t have much of a conclusion to this other than to thank anyone who reads this rambling spew of existentialism and to say all stories of questioning your identity as a rider are welcome. Because I know riding journeys change over time, I’m just not sure how exactly to navigate that change; it’s not exactly something equestrians like to talk about. But I hope this entry serves to help start a conversation or at least reassure any other existential equestrians that you are very much not alone.