
06/25/2025
I didn’t grow up in a barn with chandeliers.
I didn’t get handed imported warmbloods or winter clinics in Wellington.
I rode whatever I could afford, wherever someone would let me ride.
I’ve hauled to shows in rusty trailers older than my horse.
I’ve trained in hand-me-down tack and boots with holes in them.
I’ve patched things together, gear, horses, life, with sheer grit.
No grooms. No sponsors. No trust fund.
Just work. And love. And more work.
Because dressage isn’t supposed to be about glitter and gloss.
It’s about a conversation, one you earn, stride by stride, over years of showing up.
It’s about feel. Patience. Timing. And truth.
I still muck my own stalls, braid my own horse, and coached myself from old VHS videos and borrowed books.
And still, I ride.
And its not for glory.
It's because something in me needs this.
So no, I’m not the polished rider with the perfect setup.
But I am the rider who never quit.
Who showed up when no one was watching.
Who forged something beautiful from sweat, stubbornness, and a secondhand saddle.
Call it blue collar. Call it rough around the edges.
Just make sure you call it dressage.
Because it is.
And it lives in my blood.