The Equine Identity

Ransom and I trailered out for a trail ride at the training barn where I work, crossing, for the first time, the line between my two horse spheres. This was an emotional risk for me, and I felt vulnerable. The professional horsemen and horsewomen I work with had only heard snippets about the private life of Sarah and Ransom. To merge the two was to expose myself to the discriminating eyes of those whose knowledge and opinion I trust and value – and that was scary.

I’ve said before that I’m not one of those women who refer to their horse as their child, but I felt a lot like a parent being judged by their child’s behavior. There was no escaping the fact that Ransom’s behavior was a reflection of my skills, or lack thereof. And when you’ve spent the last fourteen years of your life in driven pursuit of this passion, it’s hard not to take critique of those skills as a critique of your identity. Horses are part of what defines me. In this one trail ride, all that time, effort, and experience was somehow dependent on what someone thought of the performance of a spotted gelding.

Ransom, like all horses, was honest. He didn’t try to pretend to be something he wasn’t. Nor did he embarrass me (“good boy!”). He showed his strengths and didn’t hide his weaknesses. He didn’t care what somebody else thought. And as I wrestled with my performance-based insecurities, that was a lesson I needed him to teach me.