We’ve Forgotten What Winning With Our Horses Actually Means

Are we winning or are we actually losing? I have buckles. I have titles. So, why do I feel so empty? I’m tired of chasing a finish line that keeps moving.

I love horses. I care about them. I’ve poured every ounce of my heart, time, money, energy, and identity into becoming better… for them. However, sometimes the hardest thing to admit is that the thing you love can slowly become what takes away the reason you loved it in the first place.

Competition has a way of making this happen. It starts innocently. You set goals and want to improve. You want to be faster, cleaner, more precise. You chase the next milestone, the next title, the next buckle, the next proof that all those hours in the saddle meant something. But, somewhere along the way, you can lose sight of the fact that the horse standing underneath you was never keeping score.

Winning my first (and only) saddle. Photo courtesy of Marcella Gruchalak

The horse doesn’t care about the placing or know the difference between first place and last place. She doesn’t care if the announcer calls your name, the crowd cheers, or if you leave the arena with your head hanging. Your horse only knows one thing: How did the ride feel? That realization has been sitting heavy with me.

Lately, I’ve lost… A lot. I’ve walked out of arenas frustrated and replayed runs in my head. I’ve analyzed every mistake, missed opportunity, and moment where I thought, “If I had just done this differently…” Continual losing wears on you. Riders don’t talk about that part enough.

We talk about perseverance, pushing through, and wanting it badly enough. Sometimes you can want something with everything you have and still find yourself at the bottom of the placings. Sometimes you can train harder, study more, put in the hours, make sacrifices, and still not get the result you were hoping for.

My first Overall Overall win. Photo courtesy of Marcella Gruchalak

When that happens over and over, you start questioning everything. Am I not good enough? Am I not talented enough? Did I misunderstand my own ability? Is this still where I’m supposed to be?

The sport can make you believe the only evidence that you’re succeeding is what you bring home. The buckle. The prizes. The title. The ranking. Lately, I’ve been questioning whether that’s where we lost ourselves as riders.

I’ve had my fair share of wins. I have holders full of buckles. Shelves full of prizes. Pieces of metal and memories that represent countless hours of work. Here’s the humbling truth: The only person really looking at those trophies is my cleaning lady every other week when she dusts them.

Winning at the Ohio State Championship. Photo by DeAnn Sloan

Winning my class at one of the biggest shows in mounted shooting. Photo courtesy of Marcella Gruchalak

That’s not meant to be dismissive. The accomplishments mattered. They represent discipline, growth, friendships, challenges overcome, and moments I’ll cherish. But they don’t soften a bad day or remind me why I fell in love with horses. My horses do.

The older I get, and the deeper I go into horsemanship, the more I realize that the biggest wins never happen inside an arena. The real win is the ride where nothing spectacular happens, but your horse feels relaxed and happy. The trail ride where you’re not chasing a clock or a score. The warm-up pen where you’re just riding, feeling your horse, noticing the little improvements nobody else sees. The conversations between two beings who don’t speak the same language but somehow understand each other. These are the moments few post.

One of my happiest moments as a horse owner. Kamille enjoying the company of Buns after getting out of the hospital after having her appendix removed. Photo by Marcella Gruchalak

Nobody shares pictures of themselves loading up their horses with kindness after a frustrating day. Few applaud the ability to walk out of the arena with your chin up after a bad performance. Nobody hands you a buckle for trying your hardest but continuing to fall short. But, in my opinion, those moments matter just as much.

Sometimes we assume the highest levels of competition automatically mean we have reached the highest level of horsemanship…and sometimes they do. There are incredible athletes who also are incredible horsemen and women. People who are constantly learning, listening, adapting, and putting their horse first. But I also wonder if sometimes, somewhere along the way, the pursuit of winning becomes so loud that we stop hearing our horses.

Another one of my happiest moments. Trail riding in Love Valley. Photo by Marlee Fritz

Yet another of my happiest moments. My first time taking Hot Sauce on a weekend trail ride. We rode so much I was too sore to sit in the saddle. Photo by Marlee Fritz

We become so focused on performing that we forget about the horse. So focused on being the best that we forget to enjoy the horses who got us there. A horse was never meant to be just a vehicle to carry our ambition. They are our partners. They have opinions. They have emotions. They have good days and bad days. They have personalities that have nothing to do with our goals.

The biggest sign of growth isn’t being able to force a perfect performance. It’s partly recognizing when your definition of success needs to change.

I need to remember why I started and stop measuring my relationship with my horse by outcomes and start measuring it by moments.

At the end of my riding career, I won’t remember every placing, every score, or every time I walked out of the arena disappointed. Heck, I don’t even remember them now.

One of the greatest moments of my life: Hot Sauce being born. Photo by Chris Robertson.

But I will remember the rides where I felt pure happiness. The rides where I trusted the partnership I have with my horses. The moments where you couldn’t get me to leave the barn.

I need to find my way back to those moments. Back to loving just riding my horses. Back to the relationships I have with my horses. Back to the reason I fell in love with horses in the first place. My greatest achievements were never the buckles getting dusty on the wall, they were always the horses themselves.