In the wake of a tragic weekend for our beloved sport of eventing I have tried to avoid reading public opinions of what happened to two wonderful and athletic horses. Conair and Powderhound were both horses who successfully competed at the upper levels and I have no doubt in my mind that both were cared for better than I care for myself. This is a norm when it comes to event riders and event horses. There have been some wonderful articles written, urging the public to avoid trying to place blame, to not ask “why”, and to just accept that tragedy does happen. These are all wonderfully written and need to be said. As the strength of the Internet grows, everyone is now not only entitled to an opinion but will probably voice it, and sometimes louder than necessary.
The eventing world is unlike any other in the equestrian world and it is this way globally, not something you can say for other equestrian sports, let alone any other Olympic sport. Eventers are crazy together but beneath our tough-as-nails and braver-than-hell exterior is a deep caring and sense of camaraderie. I believe whole-heartedly that once you delve yourself into this crazy and amazing world, nothing else will fulfill you wholly as a person, as an equestrian, and as a member of the craziest family of athletes. Of course, I am saying this because I tried. I will speak little of my own experience because I do not want to use two tragedies to shine a light on me, but I feel it is necessary to assure whoever reads this of my validity. To hopefully convince anyone that I am not just a soapbox yeller.
As a young rider I was fully immersed in the eventing world at the age of 14, it was intoxicating, invigorating, and awakened every part of my soul, unlike anything else I’d ever experience. Of course, a huge part of this was because I was beyond lucky enough to sit on a horse that LOVED his job. Rowdy was a one-in-a-trillion and gave me the confidence to not care what my high school friends thought about the horse crazy girl (something I had always fought prior) he made me feel like there was nothing I couldn’t do, and he made me dream bigger than I probably should have been. Yes, there were times I was stupidly cocky on Rowdy, but he loved his job and me enough that he let me get away with it. After competing at 3 NAYRC’s together and 2 successful CCI2*’s we were set to make our advanced debut. I was 17, he was 11, and NOTHING could have prepared me to go home from that show without him. Nothing could have prepared me for the immediate support I experienced either, although much of that week was a blur as I tried to grasp life without the horse that gave me everything, I do remember the outreach from riders I had admired and looked up to. I wasn’t even sure most of these riders knew my name but they sent flowers, cards, texts and offered more support than I was able to handle. I was in awe that these role models of mine were so understanding and generous. In the wake of one of the worst times of my life I was falling in love with the sport even more, which I originally didn’t think would be possible without Rowdy.
At the time, I avoided all forms of the Internet, already fearing what people would be saying about me. I already was blaming myself and mentally wasn’t ready to read anything that would validate this. But then I succumbed, I read, I cried, and I avoided everyone. I shut out the world that was holding me up during my hardest time, all because of anonymous opinions on the Internet. These people I had never met were asking why Rowdy and I were going advanced, where asking why I would do that to him, asking if I knew that I was the reason he wasn’t in the barn anymore. In times like this, the negative comments stand out so much more than the supportive. It’s a sad truth, but when you’re in a dark place you feel the mean comments are just the ones brave enough to be honest with you. These comments stayed with me longer than I would like to admit, causing several breakdowns during lessons (bless you, Leslie). I speak of this so whoever reads this will know that anything you say could stick with Will and Andrew much longer than it will stay with you.
What I wish to anyone that wants to ask “why” is to first take a step back, evaluate the situation and put your self in the shoes of the rider, the shoes of the groom, the shoes of the owner. Before you criticize and try to place blame somewhere, are you also wanting to place blame on someone who has everything go right for them on a given weekend? Everyday when we wake up, go to the barn, go to our jobs, it is a given fact that anything can happen. But the fear of the worst should not stop you or anyone from doing, it is the hope that anything can happen that should get you out of bed. One day you could wake up and be in the concrete shoes that Will and Andrew have on, not wanting to accept reality and not sure where to go from here, but I hope that both of them realize that there is still strength and hope in new days. We might not ever know a "why" but all you can believe in is that when the worst is possible, so is the best. Much like the quote that is spoken over and over again (because it's true) “There is no greater risk in life than to risk nothing at all.”
I hope that at the wake of such loss in the sport of eventing, that even those on the outside looking in can see what a support system we all have for each other. We will fight for each other, support each other, cry for each other, and cheer for each other, no questions asked. And sometimes, it takes tragedies to be reminded that the reason we are all ready to risk so much every day is the confidence in knowing we aren’t alone. Even though out on course it is just you and your horse, there are thousands of others competing with you. Every time someone crosses that finish line safely we all win.
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