I'm Not a Perfect Horse Trainer...

I’m not a perfect horse trainer. I’m honest about that fact because the horses I ride and work with don’t deserve anything less. Some days I ride through rough stuff. Other days I ride through pain, fear, or a moment of clumsy balance, and yes, sometimes I fall off. It’s not all sunshine and roses, a “perfect” trainer might show, nor is it a never-ending parade of angelic horses who never question the ride. What keeps me going is what happens after those rough stretches: I learn, I adapt, and I grow a little more capable, a little more patient, a little more trustworthy to the horses I’m lucky enough to train.

Some of my clearest memories come from those moments when I’m sure we’ll both come through only with luck and accidental timing. I’ve learned to read the signs in a horse’s body long before the shield of the rider’s confidence comes up. A flick of an ear, a swallow of air that turns into a hiss of breath, a foot that shifts weight to a corner of the hoof—those are not just details; they’re messages. When I ride through something nasty, I’m reminded that the horse isn’t trying to punish me or prove a point. The horse is communicating discomfort, uncertainty, confusion, even fear, and I’m the one expected to show restraint, curiosity, and care at the same time. That balance—firm enough to guide, soft enough to listen—feels like a constant negotiation, and some days I negotiate better than others.

There have been rides when I’ve thought I had it all mapped out, only to discover the map was drawn in haste or on a sunny day that never showed up for the actual ride. I’ve ridden through rain-soaked grounds that turned slick and slippery, through the twitch of a tail that betrayed a hidden worry, through the moment a horse’s mind seems to lean toward bolting and I must decide whether to turn and face the fear head-on or step back and regroup. And yes, from time to time I’ve fallen off. Sometimes it’s a stumble that reminds me to sit deeper, keep my shoulders loose, and stop trying to force a decision the horse isn’t ready to give. Other times the fall is stronger, I might even become a human lawn-dart, and I lie there for a heartbeat, counting breaths, letting the world come back into focus. When I stand up again, I’m not angry at the horse or at fate; I’m listening for the lesson. What didn’t I see? What did I miss in the music of the ride? What do I need to change so the next ride isn’t a repeat of the same mistake?

It’s not glamorous to admit that some days feel more like work than wonder. It’s not all polished rides and perfect halts. The truth is, I’ve learned more on the days when I walked away with a bruise or two on my body and in my spirit than on the days when everything clicked. The horses don’t care about our egos. They care about consistency, predictability, and trust. And trust isn’t built on flawless performance; it grows in the soil of patience, repetition, and honest re-evaluation.

I’ve come to see training as a dialogue rather than a one-sided script. I bring routines, plans, and safety nets, but I also bring a readiness to abandon the plan when the horse’s cues say so. Groundwork becomes as important as the ride itself: leading, lunging, desensitization to scary objects, teaching the horse to think rather than react in a moment of fear. When I’m honest about my own gaps—whether it’s a need to slow down, to refine my timing, or to better manage my own nerves—I often discover the next small step we can take together. It’s a quiet, iterative process: measure progress in inches, not miles; celebrate the tiny wins; treat the setbacks as data points rather than defeats.

And then there’s the realization that the “perfect” horse and the “perfect” trainer are myths we tell ourselves to keep hope alive on the long days. Some horses seem like angels and still carry a thread of stubbornness or a habit that surfaces at the worst possible moment. The horses are individuals, and so am I. A good trainer learns to adapt to each horse’s personality, to honor its history, and to respect its limits while encouraging growth. The work isn’t about turning a horse into a robot that follows commands; it’s about tuning a partnership so that both rider and horse travel forward with balance, confidence, and trust.

So yes, I’m not a perfect horse trainer. I’m a student who keeps showing up for a lesson I’ll never quite finish. And in that honesty lies the heart of my work: a promise to listen more than I lead, to teach through quiet confidence rather than loud control, and to let every ride, even the hard ones, teach me how to be better for the horses I’m fortunate enough to guide. If the day ever comes when I feel I’ve mastered it all, I hope a horse of mine will send me to the moon and remind me that mastery isn’t a destination, but a journey we take together—one ride, one lesson, one fall, and one recovered breath at a time.