When Progress Isn't Pretty: Taking the Long Road

I’m standing in the middle of the arena with my trainer, Karen, who is cantering Macho in a circle around us on the lunge line. I watch his long, supple stride and imagine myself on his back, gently gliding through the sand in perfect rhythm.

Ever since I first laid eyes on him, I’ve dreamed of winning a blue ribbon with Macho. I imagine displaying my ribbons on his stall door and showing the world what an amazing horse he is. Finally, after five years of waiting, I get to take the first step. I get to ride him.

Macho is a real, tall horse (unlike BeeBee, the pony I was riding before). I know that young horses can be unpredictable and do stupid things, so I’m a little intimidated by him. I’ve seen my teacher get frustrated with him. He sometimes bucks or rears or jumps around, and although she manages to stay on, I’m not sure I can, even after enduring all of BeeBee’s crazy antics.

Karen tells me not to expect much because I’ll be only the second person to ever ride him and he has to get used to me. I know I probably won’t canter him or possibly even trot. My dad bought me a light brown English jumping saddle many months ago, but I haven’t sat in it yet. It’ll be a while before macho can jump.

Karen brings Macho in to us. My heart skips. I’m nervous and anxious and excited all at once. I know Macho can feel my heartbeat. I want to be calm, but I keep thinking of the first time I fell off a horse and broke my arm and collarbone. The giant horse I was on was out of control, and there was no way to stop him.

I don't want Macho to do anything like that. I don't know if I would be able to trust him anymore.

Standing next to Macho, I wonder how I’ll ever manage to get up on his back. I lower my stirrup all the way down and can only barely get the tip of my toe in it.

Karen always says that if you can’t get on your own horse unassisted, you can't ride. But after several failed, sweaty attempts, I beg Karen for a leg up. She knows I have been waiting for this moment for years now, so she helps me get on.

Riding High

From the saddle he feels so different. I am miles up in the air, and he holds his head so high. BeeBee always carried it low to the ground like a cow about to graze. Now the butterflies return, and it’s time to walk out. I give him a small nudge forward. To my surprise, he starts to walk. Karen walks beside us for a while to see how he’ll take to me.

After a few minutes, I begin to walk Macho on my own, and he seems to accept that I’m on his back. I wonder if he knows how long I waited for this. Does he know, five years before—a whole half of my life—I saw him in a field nursing from his mother? That he stood there on his long legs and let me pet him, moving my tiny hands through his soft fur?

As I grew up, I watched Macho grow up. We faced the cold mud and Lake Pee together. Now, he is finally, truly mine.

Karen asks me to trot him. As I give him the cue to trot, he moves into it effortlessly, flowing into a soft, smooth gait. I’m able to sit through his trot without bouncing. It feels just the way I hoped it would.

Now I start posting and bend him around corners, riding him in circles and figure eights, bending him around my legs as he moves.

“Ask him to walk, but only with a tiny light rein. DON’T PULL!” Karen warned.

“Good, now give him a pat on his shoulder and tell him how wonderful he did.”

I am beaming with delight. My first ride went flawless, but the question lingers:

“What happens if I pull too hard on his mouth?” I ask.

“You don't want to know,” Karen says.

Be the Boss

Within a few weeks, I find the answer to my question. One lesson, after mounting, I pull one of the reins to move Macho to the wall.

He immediately backs up and pops up in a rear. I’m not quite ready and fall a bit hard on his neck, which makes him pop up again, and again. Now his rear is building, getting bigger and scarier with each movement.

Karen quickly grabs the reins and starts poking Macho in the shoulder with her finger. His rear turns into a little dance, and he eventually stops. My heart is racing, and know I almost fell off.

“That was NOT fun!” I say.

“Yes, he is very sensitive in the mouth. You cannot pull on the reins at all. We need to get the dentist out here to take a look and see what is bothering him.”

Macho continues to calm down, standing still and softening his head. Karen looks at me and says, “When he does that again, you MUST take your crop and smack him on his head as he comes up. It's really important that he learns that if he rears he will bonk his head on something.”

“Oh, I can’t whip him on his head!” I protest. “He will hate me.”

“No, he won't. He won't even know it’s you. He will think he’s hitting his head on something, and it will train him that he can’t rear without some discomfort. It's not mean. He needs you to be the boss!” Karen insists.

The dentist does a routine filing of his teeth and says that should fix it. But it doesn't. Whenever I get on him, if I even touch the reins, Macho starts to rear. I keep trying to get my crop to where I can hit him with it on his head, but each time I either fail in my timing or can’t catch my balance. It’s so frustrating, and I started to become afraid of him.

I fall off of him a few times while he’s rearing about and worry that I’ll fall wrong or get tangled up in his feet. Then Karen gets on him and set him straight. Our lessons start to be about rearing management. Karen tells me that until I pop him really good on the head, he’ll keep doing it and it’ll get worse.

I watch Karen do it and see that Macho stops after one rear. Why can't I just do it? What’s wrong with me? I feel like if I hit him on the head he’ll explode, although I saw with my own eyes that it isn't true.

“He thinks when you are on him, that his head is free and clear, because he doesn’t hit any resistance with you. You MUST make it terrible for him to rear up with you.”

I’m determined. I know that if I ever want to ride this horse with any kind of confidence—if I really want to see that blue ribbon on his stall door—I have to overcome this.

This time, as I get on, I have my crop in my hand, over his head, ready to pop him. But he just stands there like a perfect gentlemen.

“Use your reins normally, and let's see what he does,” Karen tells me.

The moment I start to use my reins, he rears up, and boom! I pop him on top of his head. He rears again, and I pop him even harder. A third time he rears up smaller, and I pop him again.

Now he just stands there bewildered. His head is no longer free and clear. I do not like hitting Macho, but Karen was right. He gets the message, and I’m proud of myself for overcoming the fear.

A Moment of Truth

Finally, it’s show day. The barn is bustling with horses and riders of all ages. All the horses are bathed and braided, and riders are all wearing their show jackets and best breaches. I’m wearing my brother’s old suit jacket he grew out of, which is still too big for me, but my breaches and boots are clean. I’m going to show Macho in English Equitation, which basically judges how nicely you can walk, trot, and canter. Still no jumps yet.

Before we start, I see the ribbons laid out on the table. The blue first-place ribbon is bigger and fancier than all the others. I so want that blue ribbon with the extra long tails.

I’m in the show class with seven other girls and their horses. I walk along the rail, waiting for the announcer to call out the instructions. Macho seems relaxed and willing. We go through all the progressions, and he does amazing! I start to believe he can possibly win this.

All of the competitors stand lined up in the middle and wait for the placements to be called. They start with fifth place. No one wants a fifth place ribbon.

Then they go to fourth, and I’m still not called.

Then third. It’s not me.

I start to think I really could have first. Or maybe I did terribly and didn't place at all. I really don't know. My heart is in my throat as I stand there frozen, waiting for second place to be announced.

“And second place goes to Macho Polo Bar and his Rider Elli…Uhh… George….georgopa…pa…dakos?”

I feel tears rolling up inside of me as I walk to take my small, short-tailed red ribbon from the woman in the middle of the arena. I don't hear who got first place. I’m just concentrating on not letting one tear fall. I can’t let anyone see that I’m disappointed.

As I come out of the arena, Karen smiles and gives me a thumbs up, but I can tell she shares in my disappointment. My mother, on the other hand, has a dropped jaw and squeals, tapping my leg, “You did it! You won a beautiful ribbon! Your first show with Macho! Wow! I’m so proud of both of you.” I fight tears as I ride past them.

I know my mother tinks I’m crying because I’m happy. But I’m not. I wanted a blue ribbon for Macho’s stall door. After the show, my mom makes me hang my red ribbon and my yellow ribbon and my white ribbon on Macho’s door. I look down the aisle and see door after door full of colorful ribbons.

I’ve drawn this door since I was a toddler, and now everything in me longs to see that blue ribbon hanging on the front.

Every Detail Counts

After the season of showing, I have a few blue ribbons hanging on the wall of my room, but none came from Macho. We had many seconds and thirds, and some non-placements, and now we look forward to another season of preparation.

I ride Macho in three lessons per week, and we progress fast, despite Macho being the baby of the barn and me being one of the youngest jumpers.

Showing in jumping requires its own strategy. It's all about precision and beauty. You have to get your horse to hit the ground before the jump in just the right spot, never hit a rail, and land on the correct lead on the other side. Every shift of weight and nuance counts. It's the culmination of everything you know about riding horses in a course that you have to memorize and execute perfectly.

When show day arrives and it’s finally my turn, I try to calm all of my nerves and focus 100 percent on the single task ahead. I have to live about eight feet in front of my horse and two seconds into the future. I have to remember my legs, hips, and shoulders, to turn to the left slightly to land him on the right foot forward.

I know all eyes are on us. The judges will see everything. There is no one else to distract them from any error I could make.

We hit the middle of every jump and clear all of them. But were we pretty enough? Did we nail every single fence with the right distance? I don't know. Some felt long. Some felt short. We will only know when the placements are announced.

I can't bear to watch the other riders or listen to what my mom says about them. I go outside and walk Macho around, waiting.

Finally, it’s time to hear the results. Will this be the moment I get the blue ribbon to put in his stall? Will I fall to pieces and blubber if I don’t make it? I can't stand the way I’m feeling. I’m so anxious, I feel sick.

We all stand in the center, holding our horses and holding our breath.

The Longest Wait

They call fifth and fourth—neither is me.

They call third place, and it’s not me. I start to doubt whether I’ve placed at all. What if I get second again?

They call second…and again, it’s not me.

I can hardly stand. I start to feel certain I won't win anything at all.

And then, I hear Macho’s name! The crowd is cheering and yelling, and I think I hear my mother scream.

Now I have true tears of overwhelmed joy. I can’t believe I won first place!

I walk Macho over to the woman who hands out ribbons, and I don't see a blue ribbon with the long tails. She smiles wide and presents a golden horse on a trophy stand.

“I get a trophy?” I ask. I’m not sure if I’m elated or disappointed. I’ve never thought about getting a trophy.

“You get this trophy and this ribbon.” She presents a huge blue ribbon—bigger than I’ve ever seen, with multiple layers and tails.

I can't believe it. I burst into tears, shaking. I’m embarrassed that I can’t hold back my emotions. When I start to walk out towards my mom and Karen, I can hardly see through my tears. My mother grabs me and hugs me while Karen takes my blue ribbon and clips it to Macho’s martingale.

That afternoon, my dream comes true. I add the big blue ribbon right in the middle of Macho’s stall door. I feel so accomplished. So proud of us. That moment became an unforgettable memory and an incredible pay-off for all the hard work we put in.

From that moment, I was forever bonded to Macho, who taught me that a dedicated commitment to excellence is even more satisfying than winning. Winning a trophy or a blue ribbon is only the symbol of the fruit that comes from hard work. The tears and disappointment only make the win sweeter.

Looking at Macho’s stall door, or staring at the golden trophy on the shelf in my room, reminds me that it was worth every sore muscle, every fall, and every difficult moment that tested what I was made of. The trophy represents the ability to persevere, to push yourself, and go above expectations.

Troubles and Triumph

Even in art, I have lost more than I have won. I have failed more times than I succeeded. I have committed countless hours, years, and decades to building my art skills and art business.

I’ve stayed up late to hit deadlines and pushed myself past exhaustion. I’ve held back tears in the disappointments and moved past humiliation. I’ve swallowed pride. I’ve bitten my lip. I’ve painted when I didn't want to and said yes to opportunities that terrified me. I’ve painted through the doubt, the frustrations, and the sorrows.

Through it all, I’ve learned that the most powerful thing you can do is persevere, to not quit when others do, and to believe in yourself and your calling in life, even when others tell you you shouldn't. When you keep going through the struggles, every red dot represents a mountain of unseen victories.

The next time you are frustrated with your art or your progress, or you spend money you didn't really have on a show only to not get any sales to even break even..the next time you endure someone saying something negative about your art, or you try with all your might and stay up late and still don't get the email that you made it into the show…know that you are in good company.

You are among the winners—the triumphant ones. You know how to push through, endure hardship, and stay in the game. You might have blood on your face. You may wonder how you got in this deep, but the days will come where you win the gold and sit inside a gallery full of red dots with your name under them.

You will have articles written about you, and your friends and family who didn't know the depths of your pain with call you talented. You will experience days where tears will not stop rolling down your cheeks in a cascade of vindication.

You will know triumph, and you will know defeat. But what you will never know is the coldness of complacency or the emptiness of comfort. And that is the greatest victory you can experience.

What keeps you showing up even when you don't see the results you hoped for?

Share your thoughts in the comments below!