I was lucky enough to fall in love with horses at a very young age and end up in a lesson program that specialized in teaching “up down” lessons. The owner of the farm evented, and so did her daughter. The first time I watched a cross-country school, I was hooked. 

I leased an old lesson horse who had a terrible habit of running out to the left (or maybe I just had a terrible habit of not putting my leg on and steering). I spent countless hours at the barn teaching camps, turning horses out, mucking stalls, and doing whatever else needed to be done to earn my place as an equestrian.

By the time college came around, there was never really another option besides the University of Kentucky. The city where I'd spent so many weekends at horse shows would finally become my backyard. By then I finally had a nice horse and very supportive parents. I was making progress in the show ring and found a rhythm between classes, riding, and grooming part-time. Life felt balanced.

And then - adulthood. 

I was suddenly faced with my very first board bill and it didn't take long to realize that a part-time job wasn't going to cover board, show entries, the farrier, and the inevitable surprise vet bill. Fortunately, I landed my dream job in marketing at US Equestrian. I was able to combine my career with the sport I loved. It felt like everything had fallen into place.

Until I got off work at 5:00 p.m. and realized...that's actually pretty late when you still have a horse waiting to be ridden.

I still wanted to do it all and I did. I spent my weekends taking lessons, showed a little less, and cleaned stalls until 9:00 p.m. to help offset costs. At some point I found myself in between horses. And like many of us, I made a perfectly rational financial decision and bought the young gray Thoroughbred standing in a field because he had a nice jump and was cute. His name was Louis, and he was quirky, incredibly sensitive, and somehow always seemed to know exactly what I was feeling. I thought I was buying my next event horse. Instead, Louis taught me one of the hardest lessons of my young adulthood: it's okay to ask for help.

Because after a long day of meetings, deadlines, and sitting in rush-hour traffic, Louis didn't care that work had been stressful. He didn't care that I was tired or frustrated. He cared that he'd been standing in his stall an extra hour and that the person climbing into the saddle wasn't mentally present.

Whether it's asking a friend to pack your horse's foot when he's abscessing for what feels like the hundredth time, leaning on your trainer to ride during an especially busy week, or simply admitting that you need to take a day off, asking for help isn't a failure. In fact, it's one of the smartest things you can do.

It's easy to fall into the mindset that if you're not doing everything yourself, you're somehow falling behind. But the truth is, longevity in this sport isn't built on burnout. It's built on consistency, adaptability, and knowing when to lean on the people around you. Our horses don't measure success by how much we spend on them or how many late nights and early rides we can cram in. They benefit from riders who are present, patient, and thoughtful every time they swing a leg over their back.

So, with a little humility and a lot of coffee, I've learned to embrace the early mornings, set goals that fit the season of life I'm in, and send the text “Hey can you ride my horse today?”

I still chase big dreams, but I no longer believe I have to do it all alone. Finding balance doesn't mean giving up on your passion. It means creating a partnership with your horse that can thrive alongside your career.