10/19/2026
I’ve seen some conversation circulating in the horse world lately about falling off, and it’s brought up something I’ve felt pretty strongly about for years.
There was a culture in the horse world when I was growing up that almost glorified falling off. It was a rite of passage. You weren’t a real rider until you’d hit the dirt a few times. Getting bucked off, getting back on, pushing through fear… those were the things that supposedly made you tough.
And while I certainly believe there’s value in learning resilience, I think we’ve sometimes confused building brave riders with unnecessarily putting them in situations that require bravery.
People are trusting us with their children.
I think about that responsibility all the time.
On Friday morning, I went out to catch my oldest lesson horse. This is a horse who has spent years being an absolute saint for countless children. And yet, there he was, bucking and farting his way across the pasture like a three-year-old. When I brought him in, he spooked at the tie post. Something he has done almost never.
Could I have saddled him up anyway? Probably. Could I have told my student that this was an opportunity to face her fears, be brave, and earn her stripes?
Sure.
But why?
Why would I knowingly put someone’s child on a horse who was very clearly telling me he wasn’t quite himself that morning?
We switched gears. We spent the hour on the ground. We worked on other skills, learned some things, and she left the barn having had a wonderful lesson.
No one got hurt. No one’s confidence was shattered. And I don’t believe she missed out on a single thing that would have made her a better horsewoman.
In fact, I’d argue she learned something incredibly valuable that morning: Good horsemanship means listening to your horse, even when it means changing your plans.
I think there’s an important distinction to make here.
There are riders with competitive aspirations who will eventually need to navigate greater challenges and calculated risks as they advance. That’s part of the sport, and those risks deserve thoughtful preparation.
But what about the little girl who comes to the barn once a week because she just loves horses? Who spends the entire car ride talking about which horse she hopes she’ll get to ride? Who counts down the days until her next lesson?
What exactly are we trying to prove by pushing her beyond what she’s ready for?
Not every child who walks into a riding program is training to be a competitive equestrian. Some are simply finding a place where they feel happy, capable, confident, and connected to an animal they adore.
And that is enough.
Of course, horses are horses. They’re large prey animals with minds of their own. Accidents happen, even with the most thoughtful instruction and the quietest horses. No instructor can eliminate every risk, and falling is an unfortunate reality of riding.
But I strongly reject the idea that frequent falls should be expected, much less celebrated as evidence of good instruction.
I don’t measure my success as an instructor by how many times a child has fallen and gotten back on.
I measure it by the confidence they develop. The trust they build. The way a timid little voice eventually becomes a confident one. The way they learn to advocate for themselves and listen to their horse.
We can teach children to be brave without being reckless with their safety.
And perhaps most importantly, we can teach them that being a good horseperson doesn’t always mean pushing through.
Sometimes it means recognizing that today isn’t the day.
Sometimes it means getting off.
Sometimes it means never getting on in the first place.
And I think that’s a lesson worth teaching, too. ❤️ 🐴
