I was sitting with a rider of mine a few days ago, listening as they recounted a fall – nothing serious, thankfully – but the ground shook more than just their body; it rattled their confidence. It got me thinking about my own journey and the advice I’ve given myself (and others) time and time again: it’s absolutely normal to feel that way.
Every rider has a moment where they look at a horse and think, “What if?” The fear is real, it’s valid, and it’s a natural response. Horses are bigger, stronger, and faster than us, and their prey instincts remain strong despite our domestication of them. What we do with those niggling fears, however, is what defines us as horsemen and horsewomen.
My most significant fall happened years ago. I was riding a lovely, rhythmical canter circle on an established mare in an outdoor floodlit arena one night. Suddenly – and I still don’t know why to this day – she bolted, did two enormous bucks, and in a flash, I was on the ground. I remember the speed of it all, then nothing until I heard my daughter’s voice bringing me back to consciousness.
On autopilot, I got up and walked to the mare, who was standing a few metres away, looking at me with wide, innocent eyes as if to say, “What happened? Are you okay?” I took the decision not to remount and instead walked her to her stable where I untacked, brushed, and rugged her up. It’s amazing what someone can do when the adrenaline kicks in. It was only in the following days that it all really hit me.
Before that point, I’d never experienced real fear around horses or when riding. I’d had moments where I felt uncertain, but I’d never been scared. Now I was. Deeply.
I had a choice: let the overwhelming, nauseating fear take hold or work on rebuilding my confidence. After admitting to friends and family that I couldn’t imagine a life without horses, I knew I had no choice but to start the journey back to myself.
Getting back on wasn’t easy. At all. I had a few weeks off while my brain recovered, and during that time I realised how deep and powerful my fear was. I couldn’t even look at the horse to start with. Walking past her stable door was enough to make breathing difficult, and I couldn’t watch when my husband rode her.
I was determined, but I didn’t rush. I started small. After a few weeks, I sat on a different horse. The fear was so strong it felt like I was frozen, and a coach had to lead me around the arena while I focused on nothing but calming my breathing. Gradually, as time passed, I started to feel stronger. One day I looked at the mare over her stable door. Then I was able to groom her. I then rode her in an indoor arena. And one day, I rode her in the outdoor arena where the accident had happened. I only did it once, but it was what I needed to lay that ghost to rest.
The rest of the journey took a while longer, but eventually, after a lot of training, determination, and self-discovery — including learning that some things can’t be rushed and that progress (especially with confidence) is not linear — I could finally say my confidence was restored and I was back to the “old” me.
Here’s my gentle advice if you’re struggling with this:
- Acknowledge the fear. Don’t pretend it’s not there. Name it. “I am afraid of falling.” When you give it a name, it loses some of its power.
- Go back to basics. There is no shame in returning to the walk or even to groundwork. Reconnecting with the horse on the ground is one of the most powerful things you can do to rebuild trust.
- Celebrate the small victories. A fall can make us feel like we’ve lost all our skill. That’s not true. Remind yourself of every single thing you’ve accomplished. Celebrate the small things, like a square halt or a quiet walk on a loose rein. Each one is a step forward.
- Listen to yourself, not others. Everyone has an opinion about when you should get back on and what you should do. But only you know when you’re ready. Don’t be pressured. This is your journey.
- Remember your “why.” Why do you ride? Is it the feeling of freedom? The quiet companionship? The challenge? Connect with that feeling. It’s the engine that will pull you through.
A fall is a setback, not a stop sign. It’s a moment of recalibration. It reminds us of the risks we take for the sheer joy of this incredible partnership. So take a deep breath. Be kind to yourself. And when you’re ready, I’ll be here to cheer you on as you get back in the saddle. The view from up here is worth every single step of the journey.