I told my husband I wanted to check on the horses; some neighbors were shooting off fireworks, and I wanted to make sure the horses weren’t bothered. 

But the real reason for my post-midnight barn visit was that I needed a few minutes to myself as the year turned. I needed some quiet. Some time to reflect. 

I love looking back at the year that has passed, remembering highs and lows, considering the coulda-done-betters, grieving the inevitable losses, and filing for the future the lessons learned.

I also love setting New Year’s resolutions, focusing on the habits or practices that deserve more attention in the coming year: more riding, more resting, more writing, more screen-free quality time with my husband and son. A folder on my laptop contains lists that go back more than a decade: goals for myself, set January after January.

But as 2025 drew to a close, I had little time for reflection. 

In early December, while moving a fridge with a friend, my husband ripped his quadriceps tendon from his patella. Surgery followed a week later—holes drilled in bone, and the tendon stitched back through—and his full recovery seems as far away as the horizon.

My husband has spent the past month frustratingly incapacitated on our couch. I, in that time, have been singlehandedly manning a 4-year-old son, a full-time job, a nine-horse barn, and all the chaos that accompanies the holidays, including hosting dinner for a dozen on Christmas Eve. There’s been little time for breathing, let alone reflecting on 2025 and setting intentions for 2026.

As we welcome in this new year, I realized recently, we will also welcome in the Year of the Horse with the Lunar New Year in February. (You’ve seen the memes, haven’t you, about how we should hope it’s a bay gelding over a chestnut mare, or how we’d better longe it first?) 

Perhaps this knowledge, too, was pulling me to the barn in the early hours of this new year. I needed a few quiet minutes with my herd. 

In our lesson program, we ask our riders to pay attention to their mounts, both on the ground and in the saddle. We encourage them to learn equine body language and to listen and respond when their horses try to communicate. There’s a lot to learn, we remind our students, when we really tune in to our horses. 

But too often, as the one doing the teaching, I forget that I, too, could benefit from the learning.

As I made my way down the aisle in the wee hours of Jan. 1, handing out treats and rubbing fuzzy faces, I considered what I might learn from my horses. Their value, as schoolies, comes not from fancy movements or trophy collections or impressive bloodlines, but from entirely from their innate ability to teach. What, I wondered, could I learn here, from my friends?

So as I welcomed in this new year of the horse, with my horses, I decided I’d let some of them serve as guides for how I might approach the year ahead. 

Liffey’s Resolution: Make Time For Connection

Liffey, my gray OTTB mare, is our barn greeter and the most social horse in our herd. She’s in the first stall and one of the few whose stall-guard privileges remain; if someone enters the barn, she’s sticking out her head to say hello. (And I dare you to ignore her; she’ll throw a full-on tantrum until she gets your attention.)

We’re on daytime turnout now, so the horses are generally coming in from the field around dinner time. Most of my horses march down the aisle and directly into their stalls, hoping to be met with their evening meal.

But not Lif. Her field is behind the barn, so she has to traverse the whole aisle to reach her stall. And as she does so, she stops at each stall to say hi to her friends. She sniffs at Gypsy until Gypsy gets annoyed and nips at her, she flirts with Moose (who is totally in love with her), and she nuzzles Waffles, her very best friend. 

She’s not in a rush to get home. She makes time to connect with others, knowing those she loves add immeasurable value to her life. 

I’m busy by nature and thrive on a packed schedule. But between a full-time job with a long commute, a full barn and a preschooler with no off button, it’s a rare treat to meet a friend for dinner or coffee or a hike. When I do make time, though, the people I love always more than fill my cup. 

May I follow Liffey’s lead and make more time for my family and friends so that 2026 brings me more of these vital connections, too.

Waffles’ Resolution: Stop Expecting The Worst

Waffles came to us in his late teens after retiring from a long and successful jumping career. He transitioned to his new, step-down lesson-horse job like the absolute professional that he is, aside from occasionally jumping a ground pole as if it were a 3’ oxer with elaborate fill. 

Under saddle his trot was rhythmic and floaty, his canter like a rocking horse, his lead-changes automatic. In short, he was the perfect teacher of contact and collection. On the ground, his manners are impeccable, though he’ll occasionally give students a run for their money if he’s not ready to come in from the field. 

When he was 21, he pulled a check ligament, which we slowly but successfully rehabbed. Then at age 24, he tore his deep digital flexor tendon in his right front. Because of his near-perfect nature, both under saddle and on the ground, we made plans with our vet to rehab this injury, too, and threw everything but the kitchen sink at this very best boy: ice, stall rest, shockwave therapies, platelet-rich-plasma, and even some trial medications and therapies that our vet asked Waffles to guinea-pig.

After months of stall rest, he progressed to hand-walking, still gentlemanly despite being cooped up. He never acted up, and eventually students took turns walking him before or after lessons, where they’d delight in Waffles’ interest in nuzzling the barn cats.

But then we noticed a new swelling, lower down that injured leg: Somehow, on stall rest, Waffles had torn his suspensory. My vet, ultrasound wand in hand, delivered the news with tears in her eyes. 

My brain, when presented with just about any scenario, likes to imagine the worst possible outcome. Someone hands me their baby, and my brain envisions dropping it. My husband is late coming home and obviously, my brain argues, he’s dead on the side of the road.

So learning this news about our beloved schoolie, I immediately went worst-case: After all this, I thought, we were going to have to put him down. 

My vet, who is also a cherished friend, said that if she were in my shoes, she’d rest him a few more weeks and then slowly start to turn him out to pasture. He’d been trapped in his stall for so long. Perhaps with zero expectations, she suggested, we’d see if he could hold up just being a pasture puff.

If he was hurting, there was our answer, she said. We’d set a date to end his suffering. But maybe, she thought, he’d be pasture-sound and able to enjoy some time outside with his friends. 

A few weeks later, stomach in my throat, I led Waffles to the back field lecturing him on the life and death importance of maintaining his sanity. Liffey, his best bud, was out there already, munching hay. I let him loose. Waffles’ head snapped up when he realized that, for the first time in months, he was free. 

He trotted a few steps, sniffed the grass, then dropped to the ground for a lengthy roll, grinding his head in the warm dirt and flipping from one side to the other, then back again, grunting with just how good it all felt. He hopped to his feet, let out a few happy bucks, then settled in to snack beside his friend.  

It’s been months now, and there’s not the slightest hitch in Waffles’ giddy-up. What started as limited turnout with his one, safe friend has turned into full days outside with his little herd. He’s sound. He’s happy. And it feels like a little miracle. 

I’ll try—like Waffles—to live in the moment in the year ahead, instead of worrying constantly about when the next shoe is going to drop. I’ll try to control what I can, like leaving him inside, for example, on days when the fields freeze into sheets of ice. And I’ll try to let go of the things I can’t, focusing instead what’s true in the present: the joy, for example, of a happy, old horse in the field with his friends. 

Gypsy’s Resolution: Set Boundaries And Stand Up For Yourself 

Gypsy is 12 hands tall, with a black, velvety coat and a perfect little white star on her dainty little face—a miniature Black Beauty who, since arriving at our farm in early 2018, has always been a barn favorite. 

She’s the first horse most young riders learn to lead or groom or saddle. She’s the first one most swing a leg over in the arena; the first horse they learn to stop or steer. If you kinda-but-not-right ask her to walk or trot or turn, she will. She forgives our young, new riders and grants them nearly endless patience. 

This kindness, however, she leaves behind at the pasture gate.

In the field, Gypsy is in charge, despite the 6—or 8 or 10—inches that all of her companions have on her. If one of them eyeballs the pile of hay she deems “hers,” she’ll bare her teeth and run them off. If someone enters her personal space without an invitation, she turns her hindquarters in warning. 

Rarely does she make contact with her frenemies. Rarely does she draw blood. She doesn’t need to. She sets boundaries for herself—don’t eat my hay and get out of my space—and then she stands up for herself when those boundaries are crossed. 

I am no Gypsy. Conflict makes me squirm, and I’ll generally choose personal discomfort over upsetting someone else. But as I get older, I admire the Gypsies I know, whether four legged or two. In 2026, may I set a few more boundaries to protect my own peace. And may I find the strength and courage to stand up for myself a little more this year, too. 

As we step forward into this new year, and as we welcome in the Year of the Horse, may we all continue to learn from our equine partners. 

And may the year bring us—literally or metaphorically—many clear rounds, picturesque trails, quiet hours in the barn, and moments of connection that sustain us throughout the year. 

Sarah K. Susa is the owner of Black Dog Stables just north of Pittsburgh, where she resides with her husband and young son. She has a B.A. in English and Creative Writing from Allegheny College and an M.Ed. from The University of Pennsylvania. She teaches high school English full-time, teaches riding lessons and facilitates educational programs at Black Dog Stables, and has no idea what you mean by the concept of free time.  

The post This Year Of The Horse, The Equines Make The Resolutions appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

Have a question for Stable Sage? Email it to coth.advice@gmail.com. We reserve the right to edit your submission for clarity and length, and we promise to keep it anonymous. 

Dear Stable Sage,

My family has a tradition of volunteering at a homeless ministry on Christmas morning, and this year it hit me harder than usual. Standing there, seeing that level of need so up close, it’s hard not to question my own life and choices.

Specifically: horses.

I love them. They’re a huge part of my life. But lately I keep thinking about the time, energy and money I pour into this sport, and wondering if it’s… wrong. Selfish. At least hard to justify, given everything else going on in the world. There are so many other people and places that could benefit from those resources.

How do you live with caring this much about something that is very obviously a privilege when the world feels like it’s on fire?

Feeling Conflicted

Dear Conflicted,

When you’re in a place where need is immediate and visible—where people are cold, hungry, exhausted, scared—and then you drive home to tack rooms, vet bills, lesson fees, and the quiet absurdity of spending hundreds of dollars so a thousand-pound animal can jump decorative sticks … yeah. That whiplash is real.

Loving horses doesn’t mean you’re indifferent to suffering. If anything, the fact that this is bothering you suggests the opposite. People who truly don’t care don’t sit with questions like this.

But your guilt doesn’t actually help anyone. It just traps you in bad mental math, where the choices start to feel like this: either you quit horses and become a better person, or you keep riding and accept that you’re kind of terrible. There’s a seductive lie in that thinking, that if you give up enough joy, comfort or meaning, you’ll finally be on the right side of things. But the world doesn’t become less unjust because one person quietly subtracts the thing that steadies them.

Horses are a privilege. So are books. So is art. So is rest. So is anything beyond survival. 

The world has always been on fire somewhere, and it always will be. You can’t fix that alone. 

What you can do is decide how you show up in places where you actually have agency.

Maybe that means continuing to volunteer locally. Wherever you live, there are volunteer needs in your own community that must be met year-round, and there are organizations that will be thrilled for your ongoing commitment (or, your donations). 

You can also connect with other like-minded equestrians who want to make a difference through groups like JustWorld International, which works to leverage the sport’s privilege to support education, nutrition and health care for children and communities around the world. Or you might get involved with equine-assisted therapy programs, rescues, or access initiatives in your area. The USEF maintains a directory of community outreach programs here. 

How much you give—time, money, energy—is personal. But if what you experienced is nudging you toward more than a once-a-year gesture, it’s worth listening.

Caring about horses asks something of you, too: consistency, self-regulation, and tolerance for discomfort. You learn to show up when it would be easier not to, manage your own emotions, and accept that progress is rarely linear. Over time, that kind of responsibility builds the same steadiness required to stay engaged with people and problems beyond the barn.

You can hold two things at once: 

The world is deeply unfair.
Horses matter to you.

If this still feels uncomfortable, good. Discomfort is often the price of staying engaged instead of checking out. You don’t need to make the tension go away. You need to decide what you’ll do with it.

The post With Everything Going On In The World, Some Days Riding Horses Feels Stupid  appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

The Chronicle is fortunate to have a fleet of columnists and contributors who not only are experts in their various specialities within the horse world, but also happen to be excellent writers willing to share their knowledge and viewpoints with our readers. Sharing opinions can be an uncomfortable business, especially in the Wild West of social media comment sections, but these writers stepped forward regardless to promote ideas that are starting conversations and steering the industry into the future.

Here are some of the most impactful columns our contributors wrote this year, listed in chronological order:

See Something, Say Something: We Need A Strong, Immediate Response To Abuse

“Much of what some people do to the horse in an effort to win is hard to believe and impossible to understand,” DiAnn Langer, president of the Youth Show Jumping Foundation, said in one of the Chronicle’s most-read opinion pieces of the year, published in the December 2024 issue of the Chronicle and on COTH.com in January. Langer laid bare some shocking allegations of abuse in the sport and exhorted horse people to speak up and report abuse to help root bad apples out of the sport. 

Read the rest here.

No, You Don’t Have To ‘Push Through Your Fear’ In Order To Get Over It

Sports psychologist Janet Sasson Edgette, Psy.D., M.P.H., helped pioneer the application of modern performance enhancement principles to the equestrian industry. In January, she wrote about what she sees as one of the most pervasive fallacies in horseback riding, the one that traces back to that idea of getting right back on the horse when you fall off.

“Of the many untruths I have to push back against when working with riders, this one is a biggie: the idea that in order to get over your fear of riding after a fall or runaway or crash, you have to push through it,” she wrote. “You don’t. And you probably shouldn’t.”

Read her advice about what to do instead here.

Can We Create A Kind, Sustainable, Accessible Horse Industry?

Technically, dressage trainer Eliza Sydnor Romm wrote a blog with that title in December 2024, upon returning from the U.S. Dressage Federation’s annual convention, where she shared the findings from a survey she did of 1,500-plus horse industry professionals, including the four biggest issues that emerged. But it was in 2025 that Romm dug into each of those four major challenges—long-term financial planning, business management, making boarding operations financially sustainable and managing employees—one at a time. Her blog on the last topic, “The Business Of Boarding Horses: Balancing Passion And Profit,” was one of our most-read stories of the year.

Romm’s survey revealed some stark truths—”In my survey of over 1,500 horse professionals, more than half of respondents had no long-term investments outside of their horses, their property and their equipment,” she wrote about financial planning—and serious pinch points the industry needs to address, while her stories took a look at how professionals around the country are doing so successfully.

“The horse industry suffers mightily from what economists call the ‘passion tax’: You love horses so much you’re willing to operate at a loss, just to stay in business,” she wrote.

Find the entire series, as well as Romm’s other blogs, here.

Opinion: USEF Must Do Better In Fighting Horse Abuse

“Tradition, paired with how horses are viewed ideologically across different membership segments, poses a challenge to defining and enforcing strict welfare standards that we can all agree on,” Caroline Howe, an amateur hunter/jumper rider and founder of the Horse Welfare Collective, wrote in an open letter to the U.S. Equestrian Federation in May. “But tradition and human ideological differences don’t change a horse’s physical and psychological needs. Or what causes them pain, stress, and discontentment. Our traditions, biases and sport must not supersede horse welfare.”

Howe’s letter detailed several horse-abuse reports sent to USEF and the progress and outcomes of those investigations, arguing that the federation was not engaging in a “strong, immediate response to abuse.”

Read her letter here.

USEF Calls Community To Unite As Guardians Of Horses And Horse Sport

On the same day Howe’s open letter was published in the Chronicle, U.S. Equestrian Federation Chief Executive Officer Bill Moroney and Chief Operations Officer and general counsel Sonja Keating wrote their own letter to federation members, in response to “recent opinion pieces.” The letter outlined steps USEF is taking to improve horse welfare and asked members to do their part as well:

“Your vigilance will promote a safe and respectful environment for our horses to train and compete. Our equestrian community must unite and uphold standards of good conduct, where every member actively fosters an environment of accountability and respect.”

Read the letter here.

Opinion: It’s Time To Let Go Of The Whip

“I’ve been riding horses for more than three decades—long enough to remember when carrying a whip wasn’t optional, it was expected,” five-star eventer Matt Brown wrote in June. “But times change. And more importantly, our understanding of horses—and of what constitutes ethical, effective training—has changed too. It’s time we talk, seriously and without defensiveness, about whether the whip still belongs in competition. Because I believe it doesn’t. Not anymore.”

Brown wrote that he had proposed a rule change to both USEF and the Fédération Equestrian Internationale that would limit whip use in the jumping phases to one strike per use and only allowing the whip to be used for encouragement to reinforce the natural aids—not as a punishment. His proposal drew lively debate during the committee process, he wrote, adding, “It was during some of those debates where I started asking myself if it might be simpler to just get rid of whips in competition completely.”

Read his entire article here.

Opinion: We Know Microchips Save Lives, But Can USEF Do Even More?

In July, the Chronicle’s resident expert on abandoned horses, contributor Christina Keim, author of “Unwanted: The Causes and Effects of America’s Horse Population Crisis,” took the reporting she’d done for a story about a former champion 3’6” hunter being saved from slaughter by her microchip, to ask a broader question: Now that microchips are mandatory for all horses competing in federation-recognized competitions, she asked, “What if USEF followed in the footsteps of The Jockey Club and the U.S. Trotting Association by enhancing its database to also link a horse to previous owners, breeders, or other connections who are willing to help in a time of need?”

“A professional quality microchip scanner costs between $300 and $400, and many rescue groups and other equine advocates are beginning to use them routinely,” she wrote. “If USEF were to create a method for their registered horses’ records to include a list of “equine emergency contacts” who would be willing to provide a safe landing for that animal, such a list could provide a starting place for owners, rescues, and others who network horses at risk to connect with the people most likely to help.”

Read the complete story here.

Opinion: We Can Remedy The Scourge Of Overuse In Horse Showing

Whether to enact specific limits on how frequently horses are shown was a welfare issue the hunter/jumper world grappled with all year. 

In June, the U.S. Equestrian Federation decided to adopt a position statement on overuse, rather than adopting numerical class limits—a decision that received mixed reactions from membership. In December, at the U.S. Hunter Jumper Association’s Annual Meeting, Moroney presented preliminary data on the topic.

Between those two events, in August, longtime Chronicle columnist Armand Leone urged the federation and its members to take a stronger stand on the issue, saying in part, “There is no union for horses, but there are examples of fair horse usage rules already in place.”

“Most USEF stakeholders have a conflict of interest in this discussion: The more that horses compete in USEF competitions, the more money is made by competition managers, trainers, riders, owners, veterinarians and USEF,” Leone noted. 

Read the rest of his column here.

The Emperor Has No Clothes

Longtime Chronicle columnist and Grand Prix trainer Jeremy Steinberg weighed into the international fray over photographs of horses—particularly dressage horses—that seemed to tell a story, all too commonly, of unhappy, stressed partners being pressured beyond their comfort zones. 

In his Between Rounds, published in print and online in September, Steinberg talked about how the sport of dressage has evolved over the years, for the worse in terms of horse welfare, and wondered whether his fellow riders were so invested in promoting its positives that they are simply pretending its negatives don’t exist—like the clothes on that fairy-tale emperor.

“These changes are again going on right under our noses, no pun intended, while we just keep talking about how great the sport is, how much we love our horses, and all the while, trying to silence the critics,” he wrote. “We keep getting told by the royalty of the sport that they know better than the novice riders, and they love their horses. The public keeps hearing from the stars of the horse sports that these things are being blown out of proportion, and the public just isn’t educated. I very much beg to differ.”

Read his complete Between Rounds here.

Where Have All The Dressage Kids Gone?

Youth dressage coach Nicole DelGiorno was inspired to write about this topic after spending a week serving as a chef d’equipe at the FEI North American Youth Championships in Michigan. DelGiorno believes that dressage would become more popular with children if there were more age-appropriate milestones. In a column full of detailed, actionable suggestions for doing just that, DelGiorno also landed a pop-culture soundbite that got to the heart of the issue:

“Right now there are hundreds of kids out there itching to ride a musical freestyle to Taylor Swift—they just don’t know it yet.”

Read her entire column here.

The post Best Of 2025: Voices Speaking Out To Change The Horse World appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

During the summer of 2023, I started every day in a pair of breeches. 

It didn’t matter if it was 90 degrees outside with 100% humidity. It didn’t matter what other tasks had to be completed or what errands had to be run. It didn’t matter if three dozen kids were en route to the barn for summer camp, or if it was a Sunday and the farm would be quiet. The deal I made with myself—after more than two years of very limited saddle time—was that once those breeches were on, I couldn’t take them off until my backside spent some time in the saddle.

Occasionally my ride would happen early in the day. Other times I’d ride after summer camp ended and my toddler went down for a nap, with the baby monitor at full volume and tucked into the thigh pocket of my breeches. Often I rode well after dark, when the temperature was cooler, after my son was tucked in for the night and the barn was quiet. But no matter when I rode, or whether that ride was schooling a lesson horse, working my OTTB, or puttering bareback on the trail that loops our property, the effect was the same: I left the barn feeling a little lighter, a little calmer, a little more peaceful, a little more patient. Every ride brought me back to myself. 

Perhaps some context here would be helpful. I’m 41 years old. I live with my husband and 2-year-old son on a 10-acre property in southwestern Pennsylvania that we’ve been fixing up since we bought it six years ago. We have eight horses and—with incredible colleagues who feel like family—operate an equestrian program geared toward beginning riders: year-round riding lessons, horsemanship clinics, camps and other educational programs. I’m also a high school teacher, so summers off from my “real job,” when I can spend all day at the farm, are precious. 

During the school year, and especially since pregnancy and having my son, there just aren’t enough hours in the day. And no matter where I choose to devote those precious hours, there’s always guilt. If I come home from school and spend the evening digging in the sandbox with my son, I feel guilty when I catch a glimpse of my mare in the field who needs saddle time: Why do you even have a green horse if you’re not going to make the time for her? 

If I leave my son with my husband to sneak in a ride, I rush to get back to my house and my family, feeling guilty for even more time away: You were already away from him nine hours today. He’ll only be this little for so long! 

If I tuck my son in and ride before bed, there’s guilt for missing out on the only child-free time my husband and I could have that day: It’s hard to reconnect if you’re at the barn, Sarah…

And as a barn owner, there’s added guilt there, too, because there’s always something eyeballing from the shadows. You’re riding when there’s tack that needs cleaned? An aisle that needs swept? E-mails that need answered or receipts that need filed? You think you have the time for something as unnecessary, as frivolous, as fun, as riding? 

It feels, sometimes, like there’s no just no way to win. Balance, for us equestrians, seems so out of reach. 

I don’t write this for sympathy. I know my situation is not out of the ordinary. 

Most of us horse owners are alike—though our individual situations may differ greatly—in the fact that it is not easy to own a horse. With increasing costs of everything, whether you board your horse or keep them at home, having horses is a more of a luxury than ever. 

You’re shoveling poop and flinging feed at your boarding stable to reduce your monthly board? I see you. You’re side-hustling to pay vet bills? I see you. You’re a mama of little ones wondering whether you should take a break from horses because you just can’t seem to do it all? I see you.

I see us.

When school started up again in the fall of 2023 and I had to trade my breeches for work clothes, my daily rides disappeared. 

Back to work, autumn found me more irritated with my husband, less patient with my son. My barn time, again, became rushed. I taught lessons after school, threw feed at the horses, then rushed to the house to spend time with my son before bed. Or on nights where I wasn’t instructing, I’d play with my son but spend no time at the barn. Even on weekends, obligations and to-do lists regularly trumped riding time. 

I’ve been burning the candle at both ends and making no time for myself, and I’m just about burnt out.

But last week, during our holiday break from lessons, our barn’s head instructor, barn manager, and I made plans to ride. For fun. One rode one of our best lesson horses for a training ride, the other rode our young Fjord she’s been working with, and I hopped on a horse we’re fostering for a local rescue for his first time under saddle with us. We chatted, we laughed, we rode and watched each other, and it was the nicest two hours I’ve had at the barn since the summertime. 

So my New Year’s resolution for me—and for any of you who need to hear this, too—is to put on the breeches. I often regret time not spent in the saddle, but I’ve never regretted the rides I did take. 

So here’s to more rides this year. Happy New Year!

Sarah K. Susa is the owner of Black Dog Stables just north of Pittsburgh, where she resides with her husband and young son. She has a B.A. in English and Creative Writing from Allegheny College and an M.Ed. from The University of Pennsylvania. She teaches high school English full-time, teaches riding lessons and facilitates educational programs at Black Dog Stables, and has no idea what you mean by the concept of free time.

The post A New Year’s Resolution: Put On The Breeches appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

We are in a crappy situation. What we thought was finally my teen daughter’s heart horse, so lovely in every single way, turned out to be unsuitable for the job we intended.

And I have a lot of frustration and sadness about this. Not just at those involved in selling her to me, but at myself. Instead of following my gut and everything I’ve learned over the years—watch my back, be less trusting—I made a quick decision. I wanted so badly to believe this time would be different. This time I could trust.

My intentions were so pure, truly. We’ve been trying so hard to afford a horse my daughter could chase her dreams with, but without a huge stash of cash, it’s felt impossible.

When we went to try this beautiful, incredible-moving mare, the dream suddenly felt attainable. She’d be the one my daughter could take into the hunter ring and potentially move up like she longed to do. For the first time in a while, I thought, Maybe I can make this happen for my kid. We can finally buy her a horse.

So instead of doing my due diligence—a vetting, research, thinking carefully—I got swept up in the moment. I listened to our then-trainer’s encouragement to just do it, leave with this horse ASAP, without a vetting. And to the seller who said someone else was coming to grab the horse the next day.

My brain whirred under the pressure, and before I knew it, we were driving away with the mare in the trailer. I was petrified but hopeful. Hopeful that my kiddo had finally gotten her lucky break. That her hard work would pay off. That other people, not just me, were looking out for her.

And though my daughter and I had doubts, we grew to adore this mare. With new shoes, joint injections, steady work and hugs, she became quieter and happy to do her job. When I questioned her trainer about her soundness over fences, she assured me she was just fine.

But when things went sour with my daughter’s trainer (gut-wrenching) we moved the mare to our small farm. And at home, though she thrived, something in my gut still felt off. So again, I called a vet. We took a few radiographs, injected more joints, adjusted her shoeing, put her on Equioxx. CHA-CHING. So much money. So much hope.

My daughter’s dreams, buried deep to avoid disappointment, started glowing red in her cheeks again. We jumped small jumps at home and took her to a derby field. My daughter and this horse seemed to be living their best lives. Dreams took flight.

Our next step was a clinic. We were excited to see her in a new venue and get feedback. But as the mare jumped around, trying so hard for my daughter, her hind end grew increasingly weak. Even after all the maintenance, fitness and all the money. She wasn’t comfortable jumping.

Sadly, it’s a grief most riders know: when the hopes you place in a horse don’t match what their body can comfortably give. 

My daughter dismounted, devastated. All of our “Can you believe we found the one?”  giddy excitement from the past month turned to searing pain. 

Everyone at the clinic rallied around us. “She is so lovely,” they told my daughter. People offered vet names and strategies for strengthening her hind end. They offered soft words of reassurance. Some even put their arms around my daughter and whispered, “It will be OK.”

Moments like this remind you how often the horse world surprises us—how the right people show up exactly when you are about to call it quits. 

After we left, I stayed in touch with a number of these people. I called an incredible vet from their recommendations and pulled my daughter out of school so she could be at the appointment.

“What’s your goal with this horse?” the vet asked, glancing at my daughter.

“To do right by her,” my teen said quietly, forcing back tears.

“I’m so sorry you’re in this situation,” he responded. He took a series of radiographs and, knowing we were already stretched, took extras at his own expense. His expression was soft and earnest as he explained the findings.

At the end, we asked if she could still jump. He said we’d always “worry about her.” And I knew I couldn’t live with that. This mare was too good, too sweet, to push past her limits. I had to continue teaching my daughter the right way, which is to put the welfare of this horse first, even if it meant putting her dreams on pause. Again. Even if it meant heartbreak.

As the vet packed up, my 15-year-old rushed over and hugged him. I saw her grow older in those few minutes, her heart breaking and healing at the same time. Because even in the depths of her sadness, she saw such good in this man.

But I won’t lie about the rollercoaster drop that came next; we’ve been down. We’ve worked so hard to wrap our heads around how we ended up here again—another horse heartbreak when all we wanted was a good match. When all we wanted was to trust horse people. To believe in good. 

And … this horse. We’ve seen the beauty and heart of this mare in the few months we’ve owned her. And that makes this even harder. Because maybe, if we pushed, she could hold up for bit longer. But we aren’t willing to put her last. She deserves more.

Through the haze of hopelessness and tears, though, I kept answering the phone. Friends checked in on my daughter. When I said, “I failed her yet again,” they set me straight. Pro friends offered her horses to ride. One even offered to have my daughter show ponies with her. “Even if she can’t make it, tell her I offered,” she said. She added, “Sometimes all you need is a glimmer of hope.”

That “glimmer” has stayed with me. In the middle of my daughter’s sorrow, people came out of the woodwork with horses, encouragement, and healing words. Every gesture sparked tears of gratitude. A reminder—thereare good horse people out there. People to hold close.

Yes, I’ve made mistakes. Yes, I’m wary. But I’m also still hopeful.

And I know most riders have lived some version of this. Trusting the wrong people. Pouring your heart into a horse who ends up needing a different job. Learning the right lessons the hard way.

Though it kills me to see my daughter devastated, I’m incredibly thankful. Because I know there are people—those glimmers—you can trust with your horses and your heart.

You just need to know where to find them.

Jamie Sindell has an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and has ridden and owned hunters on and off throughout her life. She is a mom of five kids, ages 4 to 15. She and her family reside at Wish List Farm in Pennsylvania, where her horse-crazy girls play with their pony and her son and husband play with the tractor.

The post When Doing Right By The Horse Breaks A Kid’s Heart appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

It’s a story that’s too often told: a beloved horse sold, its fate unknown. My version of that tale turned out to have a happy ending—although it took four decades for me to find that out. 

The long-ago sale of my horse was one born of necessity—another fact so common it’s (also) a cliché. My father had lost his job, and my parents were struggling financially. I was in my first year of college, and my parents decided to sell all three of my horses soon after I left for school. I never saw them again and never knew what happened until this past year.

All three were horses that I’d purchased myself thanks to various summer jobs, the price of which I still remember with remarkable clarity, all these years late: Lady, a 4-year-old green broke Quarter Horse ($400); Trystana, a black Welsh pony cross ($75) and Dawn, a tall chestnut Arab-Appaloosa filly who was just a baby of 16 months ($175). 

They were cheap horses because that was all we could afford. We didn’t even own a horse trailer, just a pick-up truck. But we did have two good-sized barns and two well-fenced pastures on our Indiana “farm” of 12 acres, surrounded by vast fields of soybeans and corn tended by our real farmer neighbors.

Looking back all these years, it’s odd to think I know how much I paid for my horses, yet I have no idea how much my parents made from their sale. They never told me, and I never asked. They kept the money, which helped keep me in college. 

My parents never told me to whom they’d sold my horses to either. It was a Facebook message I received in March 2024 I finally learned what had happened to Dawn. 

The message was from a woman named Gina Keesling, of Alexandria, Indiana. Gina had received an advance copy of “Dear Readers and Riders,” a biography I’d written about famed children’s book author Marguerite Henry to be published that May. (Marguerite Henry famously wrote “Misty of Chincoteague” and 58 other mostly true stories about horses and children.)

My publisher, Trafalgar Square Books, had sent advance copies of my book to reviewers, bloggers, and booksellers. Gina publishes HoofPrints, a combination of catalog and chatty newsletter from her Indiana home. When Gina received a copy of “Dear Readers and Riders,” she messaged me on Facebook: Had I once lived in Deerfield, Indiana? 

The question surprised me. Deerfield, Indiana, is no more than a place where two highways intersect—a junction with nothing but a red blinking light. Our farm was less than half a mile from that intersection. (My parents lived on the farm for a decade after they sold my horses; they later moved to North Carolina, Maine and finally Texas before they both passed away.)

“I ended up with that half-Arab filly you sold,” she wrote. “She lived a good long life; I called her Loki.” Gina wrote. 

I burst into tears when I read those words on the screen.  

“You just made my heart leap!” I wrote—because it sounded more dignified than, “You made me burst into big noisy sobs”—to which I added, “We called her ‘Dawn’. Could you send pictures/tell me more? I am so happy.”

And thus began a correspondence between Gina and me that continues to this day. I learned that Dawn/Loki (her registered name was Dawn of Lokhan) had grown up to be a lovely horse with a kind disposition. Gina trained her to ride—although she admitted she probably knew as little as I did when it came to training a young horse, but it had all turned out quite well nonetheless. 

Gina was just a teenager—like me—when the mare came to live on her family farm outside Portland, Indiana. She recounted the details of a sale I’d known nothing about. Gina’s grandmother’s hairdresser’s husband was a local man who had purchased both Dawn and Trystana from my parents, telling my mother that he would keep the two together.

He lied, Gina said. 

“In reality, he immediately sold the filly to me and took the pony to auction. By the time I had called your family it was too late,” Gina said, speculating my pony was sent to slaughter.

Gina is still somewhat scarred by the memory—as I was all over again—reliving what had happened and what neither of us could control all those years ago. 

But the photos Gina sent me of a pretty chestnut mare with a light dappling of spots lifted my spirits. In some pictures Loki was standing in a sunny pasture, in others Gina was riding her, western, not English, as it turned out. Gina explained that while the mare turned out to be a fairly big horse she wasn’t suited for jumping because she was “up-headed” and not very bold. 

When Gina left home for college, her parents kept Loki on their farm where she lived out the rest of her days. Although Loki wasn’t ridden much after Gina went to school, whenever Gina came home for a visit she’d saddle Loki up and ride her through the fields. Only much later Gina realized now how incredible it was that she could just saddle Loki without worrying about how long it had been since she’d been ridden, or how she might act. Loki was always calm, always well-mannered. 

And so it turned out that by writing a book about Marguerite Henry, I discovered a true story of a horse lost and found—a story, you could say that was not unlike one written by Marguerite Henry herself. 

Lettie Teague is the wine columnist for the Wall Street Journal and the author of several books including “Dear Readers and Riders,” (Trafalgar Square Press) a biography of best-selling children’s book author Marguerite Henry. She began riding when she was 9 years old and has owned several horses over the decades, some of them more memorable than others. The late Dawn/Loki was one of the memorable ones.

The post How Marguerite Henry Helped Solve A Decades-Old Lost Horse Mystery appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

Morgan had let go all other activities, her mother told me, to ride four days a week while school was out. The teen was all in, with goals of learning to jump and attending more frequent shows.

“This is it,” her mom said. “Riding’s her thing.”

Like most horse-crazy kids, her ultimate dream was a horse of her own. But unbeknownst to that teen in the barn, the reality of horse ownership was not as improbable as she imagined. In that car that day, her mom told me she and her husband were ready to talk more seriously about the responsibilities that came with owning a horse in order to support their youngest child.

Our riding program—as you may know through my blogs here—is small and beginner-focused; we take pride in developing equestrians’ foundational skills, on and off the horse. We offer a little leasing to our more advanced riders, but no boarding, and our only competitions are casual schooling shows on the property or in the area as schedules permit. 

Morgan had been with us since elementary school, but it was becoming clear: She would soon outgrow our program. 

For about six months, Morgan had been riding and leasing Ella, a sporty little red mare that we were fostering for Flying Changes Equine Rescue. The mare holds a place in my heart; she belonged to my dear friend Angie who passed away from breast cancer in 2016. Ella had been rehomed after Angie died, but when that family faced the financial struggles that often accompany divorce, they asked the rescue for help. Though my barn was full, I had too much stake in Ella’s safety. I told that family to load her up and bring her here. 

Morgan was one of only a few riders in the barn who could handle the mare and not be intimidated by her spunk. Despite pushing 20, the Friesian/Rocky Mountain Horse cross has far more go than whoa. Morgan loved Ella and handled her well, riding out her occasional zoomies and constantly questioning what she could do better as a rider to help the horse to shine. 

I might have mentioned to Morgan’s mom, Jen, in the car that day that Morgan and Ella—who was ready for adoption through the rescue—might make just the perfect pair. 

Not long after, Jen and her husband Jim sat down with me, Morgan-less, in the barn office so I could talk them through what it really meant to own a horse. 

Jen had ridden in her youth and vibrated with excitement recognizing that the family was in the position to make this dream come true, and Jim—an equine newbie, bless his heart—asked questions and nodded, interested and supportive (or perhaps, realizing also, that between his horse-loving wife and equestrian daughter he was sorely outnumbered). 

By the time our conversation wrapped up we were planning next steps, namely finding the right boarding barn and show program for Morgan and Ella to continue their education. Jen was giddy as we conspired plans for revealing the news to Morgan that the horse she’d come to love would be her very own. 

I was surprised by the catch of my own words in my throat when I told Morgan’s parents, on their way out the door, that this gift would change their daughter’s life in ways that we couldn’t yet imagine.

Because there’s magic, I told them, when it comes to girls and horses.

From the time I could walk, an inexplicable force pulled me like a magnet to the horses in my aunt’s backyard. Something about it all—the softness of their eyes and the tickle of their whiskers and the rhythmic chewing of hay and the smell of the barn—just felt like home. 

In elementary school, when I started taking weekly lessons, it became quickly apparent that I had the loose-screw common to all equestrians. I’d have rather spent time in that dark, musty, spiderwebbed barn than absolutely anywhere else in the world. 

By fifth grade, I was leasing P.J., a white-faced, four-socked bay pony who was my safety net through a tough transition to a new school. When Joe Glassar teased me from the back of the bus about the zits beginning to dot my forehead, or the mean girls in gym class snickered at me for not wearing a bra (I was flat-chested until high school) or shaving my legs (my leg-hair was translucent-blonde), the sting of their harsh words all but disappeared when I stepped into P.J.’s stall and buried my face in his soft neck. 

In middle school I was tall and thin and awkwardly angular, and I lacked the hand-eye coordination to have even a mediocre talent at team ball-sports. I’d failed out of dance years prior, and willingly quit softball (twist my arm) to spend more time at the barn. 

I was 14, I think, when my parents and I negotiated at the kitchen table the terms for a horse of my own. They saw my efforts at the barn—I’d picked up barn chores and babysitting jobs for the barn owner in exchange for more saddle time—and wanted to support my passion. But I’d need to contribute. When I had $2,000 saved, we could begin to search. They’d pay board, they said, and I’d be responsible paying the vet and the blacksmith. 

Within a year, I’d saved the agreed-on amount and after just a few weeks of searching, a chunky red Quarter Horse gelding named Boogie Dee Socks was officially mine. 

I decorated his stall with souvenirs I bought him on vacations, and when I got a job at Bruster’s Ice Cream, I stopped by the barn with the scoop of watermelon Italian ice—his favorite flavor—I’d earned at the end of my shift. I dressed him up for Halloweens; one year we were hula dancers and another he was a brick wall and I, Humpty Dumpty. In my high school graduation photo, he was my plus one.

“Elmo” and I were together for 23 years. 

He saw me through high school milestones and four years of college when my aunt and uncle graciously housed him in that barn in their backyard I’d loved as a child. Elmo moved from Pennsylvania to Virginia with me for my first teaching job where I lived in a trailer so I could also afford his board, a choice I’d make again and again for the comfort and security he offered so far away from home.

That horse was my grounding force through the tumultuous teenage years and the waves of early adulthood. I cried in the corner of his stall, arms wrapped around my knees, more times than I can count. In college, his steady force helped me through the end of that first relationship I thought would last forever. 

As an adult, when I was rocked by Angie’s death to cancer at 35, and a life-threatening ectopic pregnancy a few years later, it was Elmo’s muzzle against my wet cheek that helped me find my breath and come back into myself. 

Elmo was my steadiest, most reliable colleague when I began teaching riding lessons, first at a small boarding barn where I picked up few students on weekends, then at the farm my husband and I bought in 2017. (I cried again in his stall—tears of joy this time—when I brought him home to the barn I can see from my living room window.)

Elmo taught me responsibility. He liked to colic—mildly but reliably—when the weather changed, and I have vivid memories of sitting in his stall, wrapped in a stable blanket and studying for a high school French test, so I could keep an eye on him when he was acting off.

He taught me, when he became my school-horse colleague, to remember what horses look like through the eyes of a child. When I’d stoop to kid-level next to a student and look up at my horse’s kind eyes and soft nose, I was a kid again, too. Watching my students learn to love him was a constant reminder of how lucky we are that horses allow us to be their partners. 

Elmo also taught me to let go. He was 31 when I lost him a few years ago, fine on a Friday and down in his run-in shed on a warm Saturday. While I waited for the vet to arrive to help Elmo cross that rainbow bridge—my beloved horse comfortably doped, thank God, on a high dose of Banamine—I called my parents to break the news. 

“Can I please come see him,” my dad asked, choked up. “I know what he means to you.”

It was my father’s signature scrawled on that check 23 years prior that brought Elmo into my life. And en route to my farm that morning, my dad called the large-animal cremation company and read off his credit card numbers—his way, I knew, of supporting me through this hardest loss.

A year after Elmo died, we tore down the rusting, dilapidated pole-building that was serving as our main barn. When we poured the aisle in the new building, I spread some of Elmo’s ashes in the heavy, wet concrete. Literally and figuratively, he will forever be my foundation. 

That gift of horses—the visits to my aunts, the lessons as a child, the lease of a pony and that first horse of my own—shaped the course of my life. 

Ella will shape Morgan’s life, too. 

Last weekend, we had our annual barn photo shoot. My dear friend Hilary is a talented equestrian photographer who shoots my lesson students and families every autumn.

Jen had it all planned: Hilary would photograph Morgan and the mare, then I’d take Ella back to her stall for some family photos sans-horse. While Hilary was shooting all the mom and dad and sisters and grandparent combos, I’d put on Ella’s new halter, deck her out in big, red bows and wait for Jen’s signal. 

Behind the barn, under a big, broad oak, Morgan saw the mare approach. I handed her a gift bag. Jen videoed from her phone and Hilary positioned herself, camera raised. 

I handed Morgan a gift bag and her hands shook as she unwrapped a wooden stall sign from pastel tissue paper. 

Ella’s name was on the top line in blocky font. 

“Owned by… ” was below it in a delicate script. 

“Thank you,” she said, her voice wobbling. “It’s so cute.”

She looked from adult to adult. She was afraid to ask the obvious question, it seemed, in case somehow she was reading this all wrong. 

“There’s one more thing in there,” I said. 

The bag and all its contents nearly fell to the ground as she fumbled to remove the oversized, embossed navy envelope tucked inside.

She opened it and began to cry.

“Oh my God,” she said. Her shoulders shook. Saucer-wide eyes darted from me to her mom, dad, and sister. 

“Thank you so much.”

“WHAT DOES IT SAY?” her grandmother yelled from her seat in a folding chair at the end of the barn aisle. Jen and her mother had both ridden in childhood; Ella was a dream three generations in the making. 

“It’s a certificate of adoption,” she said, and turned toward her grandparents, tears streaking her cheeks. 

“She’s mine.”

I don’t know what it’ll mean, in the long run, for Morgan to have a horse of her own. 

I know that the morning after we moved the mare to her new barn, Morgan sent me a selfie-video of her and Ella sharing bites of a carrot, a Cheshire-grin wide across her face. 

(I also know that two days later, Jen and Jim visited Ella while Morgan was at school, irked that her parents wouldn’t pull her from chemistry to tag along. They smothered her with pets and fed her treats and sent me selfies with the horse and texts that read “new favorite child?”)

I know that Ella will help Morgan to improve in her riding, and I hope they find success in the show arena, whatever that means for them.

But I also hope that Ella will accompany Morgan through the years to come, grounding Morgan as she grows, in that wise, safe way that only horses can. 

There’s just something special between girls and horses. 

Sarah K. Susa is the owner of Black Dog Stables just north of Pittsburgh, where she resides with her husband and young son. She has a B.A. in English and Creative Writing from Allegheny College and an M.Ed. from The University of Pennsylvania. She teaches high school English full-time, teaches riding lessons and facilitates educational programs at Black Dog Stables, and has no idea what you mean by the concept of free time.  

The post There’s Just Something About Girls And Horses appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

If there’s one sentiment that rings true in life, both inside and outside of the horse world, it’s that everyone’s going to have an opinion on how you do things.

I know there were plenty of skeptics, including industry professionals, in my periphery when I retired my horse Dixie when she was 19, coming 20, and still physically sound. I knew she was unhappy. I exhausted all resources over a period of half a year to see if I could make her happy again as a riding and competition horse, and when I couldn’t, I let her take a step back. Dixie was not the type of horse to tell me no, so after six months of her emphatically saying just that, it was clear that I needed to honor her, even if we hadn’t achieved all my goals, and even if, physically, she may have been able to. 

Lots of people in my life understood. Others didn’t. I never second-guessed my decision, especially as I watched my horse become herself again in retirement. I knew her best, and as her rider and her advocate, I felt justified, prepared, and well within my jurisdiction to make that call.

Dixie is positively thriving in her retirement now at my parents’ Pennsylvania farm. She remains an important part of my life, but I’ve also shifted to bringing along my 3-year-old gelding, “Scotch.” While I’ve ridden dozens of young horses and assisted in some of their early training, Scotch is my first personal young horse. (I got Dixie when she was 15 and my childhood horse Chai when he was 8.) The process thus far has been far more rewarding than I had even imagined.

Making decisions for the life path of a young horse is a bit heavier and more nuanced than it is for an older horse at the end of their career. There’s no inherent risk in retiring a horse a little earlier than anticipated. There could be plenty of inherent risk to mis-stepping in a young horse’s development. And as Scotch’s 3-year-old year progresses, the outside noise about what I am—and am not—doing with him has become louder.

I’ve taken it slowly with him, as has always been my plan. I have plenty of scientific and anecdotal information that informs the way I operate with him. I always knew I didn’t want him started under saddle until he was 3, and I wanted his early rides to be low pressure, fostering his confidence and prioritizing his proprioception. I want to preserve his joints, his back and his mind for a long and successful career.

This summer, I selected a trainer to start him who shares my philosophy. She gave him the best 90-day introduction to being a riding horse I could have asked for. I then moved Scotch to a friend’s private farm in October, where we’ve done a little light riding and have since transitioned to mostly groundwork. I plan to give him the winter off from work under saddle so he can grow up some more, both physically and mentally. 

I think I’ve received the most proverbial side eye when divulging my plans for Scotch next year as a 4-year-old. I don’t need him to do anything spectacular or specialized. He will continue to hack out a good amount, as he did this summer. He’ll do some ring work, focus on going forward, get introduced to foundational concepts like bending and contact, and travel around a bit to learn about being ridden in new environments. I think Scotch’s first full year under saddle should be fun, mentally engaging, and prioritize his confidence for a strong overall foundation.

Scotch’s future career is as a dressage horse, but I don’t need him to be tied down to that at 4. The resounding expectation I’ve heard, though, is that Scotch should be in a professional program and begin his formal dressage education and show career next year. In failing to establish that as my plan, I’ve had my ambition questioned. I’ve been written off as too soft, as someone who’s babying a talented young horse, as if my plans will cripple his future career. It’s easy enough for me to shrug off this kind of feedback when it comes from friends and industry acquaintances, but hearing it from professionals has given me a bit of pause: Do they know better? Am I being too idealistic and making an ill-formed decision?

I am, after all, an amateur rider. I have more than 25 years of progressive experience in the horse world, but I am not a professional, nor have I ever been. I am in no way delusional enough to plan to bring Scotch along without copious professional assistance—I certainly plan to take plenty of lessons, and I’ve even been taking groundwork lessons with him this fall. 

But after much reflection, I have come to assure myself that my own experience is not without value. While there’s plenty I don’t know, there’s also plenty I do. I am confident in my knowledge and ability to play an active role in his development, especially the methodology with which it’s executed. I firmly believe that I don’t have to know how to independently execute all the training steps to be able to guide the direction of Scotch’s training or advocate for his kind, fair, methodical treatment.

Just as I didn’t see any inherent risk in retiring my older horse perhaps a touch early, I don’t see any inherent risk in taking things a touch slow with my young horse. In both situations, I’d rather err on the side of caution. Retiring Dixie too late could have further soured her and breached the trusting relationship we’d built, and it could have wreaked physical havoc in the form of ulcers or countless other maladies. Pushing Scotch too much, too soon could negatively impact his physical development, diminish his great natural desire to try, or sour him to his future career. None of those outcomes are worth pursuing an overly specialized training path and earlier show career to placate others’ expectations.

I am not saying I want to let Scotch do nothing until he’s fully grown or anything like that. I’ve also seen scientific and anecdotal evidence suggesting that early athletic development can benefit horses in the long run. I just think there are age- and maturity-appropriate ways to introduce that development without expecting the full athletic performance at four years old. Hacking is invaluable for his body and mind, and basics like rhythm, tempo, relaxation, and suppleness are worth introducing and working on slowly and patiently, without grand expectation.

I remember using the phrase happy, healthy athlete as a barometer for success in evaluating Dixie and her performance, especially toward the end of her career. That phrase has resonated in the long term. I’ve adopted it as something of a mantra as I map out next steps in Scotch’s career. 

And as I do so, my decision making will remain guided by correct, methodical development that prioritizes his mental and physical wellbeing. There are no prescribed timelines by which we must progress. I may not be a professional, but I am an experienced owner who will advocate for my horse’s best interests. As long as I abide by that standard, and as long as I’m developing a happy, healthy athlete, I’m confident I’m doing right by my horse. Beyond that, I don’t feel that I owe anyone any further explanation.

Laura Adriaanse is a lifelong equestrian, amateur dressage rider, and USDF bronze medalist. She has three horses: Solidarity LJS (“Scotch”), a 3-year-old Hanoverian gelding; Dixie Rose (“Dixie”), a 21-year-old Hanoverian mare; and Change of Heart (“Chai”), a 25-year-old Thoroughbred gelding. She also enjoys riding and helping to bring along her mom’s 7-year-old Connemara pony Kynynmont Walnut (“Dublin”). Laura lives in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, works in communications for a defense contractor, and, outside the horse world, loves writing, art, and the beach.

The post Following My True North As An Amateur Horse Owner appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

Even though it was four decades ago I clearly recall the day I asked my parents if I could learn to ride. They were slightly perplexed but managed to facilitate the process, and literally never looked back. Once I started taking lessons, Kate wanted to join in, as any self-respecting little sister would. 

Both of us equestri-enned with the utmost enthusiasm throughout the late 1980s and 1990s, doing all the things that were typical of our slightly feral generation. All-day, multi-county trail riding adventures with our shared best friend Angie were the norm. Assuring our mothers not to worry—that it “might look like we are galloping but we are only trotting” was a standard non-truth.

And then spending the remainder of our free time pretending to be horses, playing with various overused horse figurines, and planning our lives out as future award-winning riders was what we did. A staple in our young years was to parade our Breyer horses around, imagining that we were the top riders at the largest most fabulous of horse shows. This was a game that never got old to us.

My sister and I spent our latter teen years heading out to horse shows on our own, armed with nothing more than a scrap of know-how and a Delorme map. (We are old and can navigate sans GPS!) And while our teenage horse craze was in full swing, our parents continued to unironically support the madness (and also looked the other way when we were “trotting not galloping”).

While I leaped headfirst into the professional world of horses straight out of high school, Kate decided to take a more traditional (and probably more responsible) career path. 

For almost three decades she resisted the lure of horses (almost like a normal muggle) and thrives in the challenging of a career of medicine. About a decade ago, she relocated to Colorado and buckled down at the job she loves, with her dogs and partner, almost making the world think she would continue living a very normal and adult life. 

Until … I went to my first U.S. Dressage Finals (Kentucky) in 2023 when Kate and her then fiancé Steve joined a few other beloved family members to cheer me on. There, surrounded by glorious and beautiful dressage horses, her long-dormant horse crazy side began to reappear. By the time her plane touched down after the horse show, she had already lined up lessons at a dressage stable close to her home. 

Immediately, the two of us flashed back to decades prior, to a time when most all of our conversations had something to do with horses. And what could be more wonderful? In very short order she was in the market for a horse of her own and brought home her young and incredibly good-natured boy Nico, who has been an absolutely fabulous mount for her since his arrival almost two years ago. And just like that, it was all over, and we were right back to the olden days of all-horses-all-the time. 

Too bad if it’s the holidays, we are talking about dressage. Too bad it’s someone’s birthday, let’s talk about saddle fitting. Oh, and it’s time for Kate to plan a wedding? Tough luck, we will talk about that later, because it is the middle of show season. 

When Kate and Steve got married this past summer, my wedding speech was essentially a TED Talk about how horses have shaped our lives in different ways. Both of our husbands are enthusiastic about our horse craziness. While my husband, Eric, knew what he was in for, Kate went into her relationship with no horse baggage—so one can imagine the sudden introduction to all things equine may have come as a shock to Steve! 

I believe that having a partner who joyfully understands when I say, “I’m going to be at the barn for 30 minutes,” that actually means two hours, and “I’ll just do one or two horse show’s this season” actually means at least five, is essential. Thankfully, Steve is as unironically enthusiastic about Kate’s horse shenanigans as the rest of our family is, so he fits in perfectly. 

This season, after a whirlwind summer of showing, both Kate and I found ourselves at our respective regional championships on the same weekend in September. 

It was Kate’s first regional championship. Her classes were large, and her only goal was to gain experience in a big environment to bring into the 2026 season. Through the magic of technology my mother and I eagerly tracked her scores from her show in Parker, Colorado, while we were busy with my own horse, and crew of clients in Saugerties, New York.

Then, when Kate ended up champion in her second level adult amateur final, it was my dad back in Maine who sent the text “OHIO” to us, which is very on brand for my father and his ability to convey a whole paragraph in one word: We knew in that moment that both of us would be riding at U.S. Dressage Finals, held in Ohio for the first time this year, and it was ridiculously exciting. 

Five short weeks later we all convened in Wilmington, Ohio, at the World Equestrian Center. It was almost 30 years after our last horse show together as a family. This time we were armed with slightly more know-how (not to mention a GPS to get us there). It was one of those full-circle moments: experiencing a huge championship together and being lucky enough to have both our parents there, still cheering us on after all these years.

Our husbands—armed with later-in-life horse knowledge—were both incredibly supportive. Steve was able to attend in person, while my husband Eric was one of the official horse care people for me back at home. And for me, being able to be there and cheer for my sister at her first national championship was a life highlight, and one I won’t forget. While I know it was not “just yesterday” that we were bombing around on ponies, raising all kinds of hell, it’s still fresh in my mind that we are now the people we dreamed of being when we were growing up. 

I’m Sara Bradley, dressage rider, trainer, and a big fan of having family reunions at major horse shows.  I own and operate Waterford Equestrian Center in Waterford, Maine. When I’m not in the barn you can find me thinking about all things dressage at home, enjoying weird hobbies like running with my husband and dog, and looking for easter eggs in season 5 of “Stranger Things.” Please follow along for more shenanigans on Instagram @dubais_dream

The post 30 Years Later, A Competition Becomes A Full-Circle Family Moment appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.

Welcome back to our advice column, Ask Stable Sage, where we answer queries from readers about horse- and life-related issues, especially where the two intersect. Take our suggestions with a grain of salt, or at least one sugar cube. This column is intended for entertainment purposes only and should not be considered legal advice. 

Have a question for Stable Sage? Email it to coth.advice@gmail.com. We reserve the right to edit your submission for clarity and length, and we promise to keep it anonymous. 

Dear Stable Sage,

I run a boarding barn, and it’s a 365-day-a-year job—including but not limited to holidays. While my boarders are posting photos of matching pajamas, Christmas trees and cinnamon rolls, I’m outside breaking ice in the troughs, tossing hay and changing endless blankets. I know this is the life I chose, but sometimes I just feel a little resentful. Any advice? 

Barn Bah-Humbug

Dear Barn Bah-Humbug,

It’s true: Horses don’t care what day it is. Holidays, birthdays, blizzards, nuclear winter, zombie apocalypse … someone still has to feed, muck and keep everyone from staging a prison riot. That someone is you.

Before you spiral into “why am I the only one in the world working on Christmas?” zoom out. You are part of a whole work force who never gets the day off: health care workers, firefighters, TSA agents, hotel employees, ferry captains in Alaska, movie theater staff, and the poor soul refilling gas station coffee at 5 a.m. You aren’t alone in the trench.

And you don’t have to completely sacrifice your own holiday experience. Just rearrange it. Make your celebration a moveable feast. Christmas morning isn’t everything. Do dinner and gifts on Christmas Eve or once the horses are bedded down. Create a nice ritual for yourself: Sunrise Irish coffee in the aisle, snuggles with your favorite horse, Christmas music echoing through the stalls, or just peace and quiet. I’d trade my mother-in-law’s passive-aggressive droning or my uncle’s annual monologue about cryptocurrency for that any day. Sometimes the barn is the quiet place the rest of the world is trying to find.

Can you take Dec. 26 off instead? Do it. Now, if you don’t have staff, a barnsitter, a back-up human or at least one competent boarder to rotate chores with, that’s a bigger system problem. No one can be a one-person barn army forever. Time off is a real need. Burnout isn’t a cute holiday theme.

Here’s something barn managers don’t hear enough: Your work is emotional labor, too. You’re managing schedules, emergencies, the weather, personalities and the unpredictable whims of 1,200-pound animals. You feed and water, sure, but you also soothe, reassure, troubleshoot, mediate, plan, anticipate disaster, and keep the peace before there’s even visible chaos to prevent.

You’re the keeper of everybody’s safety and everybody’s peace of mind. When an owner sleeps through Christmas morning without a single anxious thought about their horse, it’s because you’ve already thought about all the things that could go wrong and prevented them.

And IMO, that old “love what you do and you’ll never work a day in your life” adage is kind of garbage. The love may fuel the effort, but it’s still labor. It’s still responsibility. It’s still showing up, especially on the days when no one else wants the job. And it’s extra work when you’re doing it on a holiday.

Now, a note for the other side of the aisle:

Boarders, listen up.

You benefit from this person’s sacrifice. The reason your horse is warm, watered and fed while you’re at home watching “Elf” and drinking mulled wine is because your barn owner or manager doesn’t have that choice.

So show appreciation. Tell them with your words AND show them with a thoughtful gift, whether it’s a bottle of something festive or a prepaid Visa gift card. Our barn pools donations from boarders and splits the cash between all the staff with cards signed by everybody. A little generosity goes a long way toward making someone feel seen.

We see you, essential barn workers! And we appreciate you. Happy holidays!

The post I Don’t Get A Christmas Break. How Do I Keep From Feeling Like A Scrooge? appeared first on The Chronicle of the Horse.