Something Better
I remember the first time I felt that nasty gut wrenching feeling.
I was in college. I had joined the Equestrian team. And as I mounted up for my first practice, the feeling settled deep in my belly.
"They're better than you."
The other girls wore pristine breeches. They were thin, with custom saddles, fancy tall boots, and embroidered saddle pads.
I was wearing skinny jeans with half chaps pulled over old paddock boots. I had a synthetic saddle. And no one new who I was. I didn't train under fancy trainers. I didn't win world class shows. None of the people I trained, rode, and otherwise "horsed" with were famous or important.
And these girls, they were the real deal. And I was a little bit scared. I'd been riding since I was a kid, and now, after all these years, I was finally scared.
The coach told me I had quiet legs and a steady hand. That seemed like a compliment.
The other girls never invited me to hang out with them, they didn't talk to me. I was a freshman, and I didn't fill any of the competition spots. Therefore, I didn't exist.
Life on the equestrian team was tough. The girls were challenging, I was taking 17 hours of Science classes, and trying to have a social life. My classes got hard. I let the fear win.
I went home for the summer after my freshman year, and rode as much as I could.
I vaguely felt good about myself again.
So I went back, spirit slightly renewed, willing to try again.
Then one day at practice, I heard a rumor that one of the girls had rubbed Cayenne pepper on the bit of one of the other team member's tack. The girl got bucked off. The fall looked pretty rough.
That girl never came back to practice, she was hurt, and she gave up her competition spot.
I heard the girls giggling about it in the tack room later on. And I was scared again.
So I quit.
And that was the wrong choice. I know that now. But it's water under the bridge. I can't go back and change it. I threw myself into other hobbies. I learned about myself. I focused on my classes. And I found my way back to horses. I just had to do it on my own time.
I remember the second time I had that thought.
"They're better than you."
When I realized that my boyfriend could do better than me.
There's always something better out there.
Someone prettier, smarter, richer, faster, more talented.
But you have to make the cheering audile.
You have to let the good stuff whisper to you louder than the bad stuff.
You have to claw your way through battle. You can't give up on yourself.
So I thought back to what my dad used to tell me:
"Hard work beats talent, when talent doesn't work hard."
And I realized he was right. I couldn't let life pass me by because I didn't feel worthy.
You don't cross the ocean merely by staring at the sea. You have to try.
From that point on, I applied myself to everything in my life, 100%.
And I graduated college with a Bachelor's of Science in Nutrition.
I got my black belt in Brazilian jiu jitsu.
I started a worthwhile career.
And then I wiggled my way back into the horse world.
And it was an ugly struggle.
But it has been absolutely worth it.
And in this journey I have found something better than fear.
Hope.
And I hope to do better every day.
I was in college. I had joined the Equestrian team. And as I mounted up for my first practice, the feeling settled deep in my belly.
"They're better than you."
The other girls wore pristine breeches. They were thin, with custom saddles, fancy tall boots, and embroidered saddle pads.
I was wearing skinny jeans with half chaps pulled over old paddock boots. I had a synthetic saddle. And no one new who I was. I didn't train under fancy trainers. I didn't win world class shows. None of the people I trained, rode, and otherwise "horsed" with were famous or important.
And these girls, they were the real deal. And I was a little bit scared. I'd been riding since I was a kid, and now, after all these years, I was finally scared.
The coach told me I had quiet legs and a steady hand. That seemed like a compliment.
The other girls never invited me to hang out with them, they didn't talk to me. I was a freshman, and I didn't fill any of the competition spots. Therefore, I didn't exist.
Life on the equestrian team was tough. The girls were challenging, I was taking 17 hours of Science classes, and trying to have a social life. My classes got hard. I let the fear win.
I went home for the summer after my freshman year, and rode as much as I could.
I vaguely felt good about myself again.
So I went back, spirit slightly renewed, willing to try again.
Then one day at practice, I heard a rumor that one of the girls had rubbed Cayenne pepper on the bit of one of the other team member's tack. The girl got bucked off. The fall looked pretty rough.
That girl never came back to practice, she was hurt, and she gave up her competition spot.
I heard the girls giggling about it in the tack room later on. And I was scared again.
So I quit.
And that was the wrong choice. I know that now. But it's water under the bridge. I can't go back and change it. I threw myself into other hobbies. I learned about myself. I focused on my classes. And I found my way back to horses. I just had to do it on my own time.
I remember the second time I had that thought.
"They're better than you."
When I realized that my boyfriend could do better than me.
There's always something better out there.
Someone prettier, smarter, richer, faster, more talented.
But you have to make the cheering audile.
You have to let the good stuff whisper to you louder than the bad stuff.
You have to claw your way through battle. You can't give up on yourself.
So I thought back to what my dad used to tell me:
"Hard work beats talent, when talent doesn't work hard."
And I realized he was right. I couldn't let life pass me by because I didn't feel worthy.
You don't cross the ocean merely by staring at the sea. You have to try.
From that point on, I applied myself to everything in my life, 100%.
And I graduated college with a Bachelor's of Science in Nutrition.
I got my black belt in Brazilian jiu jitsu.
I started a worthwhile career.
And then I wiggled my way back into the horse world.
And it was an ugly struggle.
But it has been absolutely worth it.
And in this journey I have found something better than fear.
Hope.
And I hope to do better every day.
Tiny version of me at age 7, riding Sandy circa 1997.
Sonny (left) & Apache (right), Summer 2017
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