I’ve recently watched helplessly as two of my daughters fell off their horses. It had been a while since I’d seen one of my daughters tumble, so I’d forgotten that instinctive panic—that intense urge to leap into the ring, wrap her in my arms, and whisk her off for ice cream, safe from harm. I’d forgotten how uncomfortable it feels to sit with the fear, keep my emotions in check, and let my kid work through it.
But what I didn’t forget is why we say, “Get back on the horse.” Getting back on after a fall is a profound life lesson for kids: When things feel hard and scary, we push through rather than throw in the towel. And though riding comes with risk, risk comes with reward: a lifetime filled with passion, grit and resilience.
Still, when I watched my teen fall last month, I had to stop myself from spiraling. She had barely settled into the saddle when a loud bang shook the indoor. Understandably, the horse jumped sideways, and off she went. Slam! Down hard on her back. We were alone in the arena and hadn’t realized the farm owner was fixing a broken door.
“Are you OK?” I yelled. But she was already on her feet, dusting off her purple breeches.
“Is there dirt on my shirt?” she asked. “A little,” I said, brushing at it as she headed back to the mounting block.
I inhaled deeply and stayed quiet. She could do this.
When her trainer arrived, she could tell my daughter was rattled, especially as the horse approached the noisy door.
“Let’s put him to work,” she said gently.
My daughter mustered the courage to trot at the far end of the ring, still avoiding the door. Her trainer gave her grace: “We have all the time in the world,” she reassured when my daughter apologized for her nerves.
As the lesson progressed, they warmed up over small jumps.
“I know you’re looking out the door because you’re on edge, but he’s fine,” her trainer told her. “Push him forward.”
By the end of the lesson, my kid was herself again, riding fluidly and confidently, ignoring the monster door. She did it!
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Next time, I thought to myself, she’ll remember to shorten her reins immediately and get right to work. She’ll know she can handle what comes her way.
Even so, getting back on takes real guts—hers, of course, but mine too.
It’s rough watching your child take a hard fall and then watching them get on again. It takes guts to keep encouraging them to do a sport that is riskier than something with a net (or, let’s face it, riskier than nearly any other hobby). It’s brave to say, “You got this,” when your own anxiety is flipping around in your stomach. But you put on your game face, cheer for your kid, and video her rounds for her.
At a show several weeks later, I think I passed the brave-mom fall test again. Though honestly, I’m still mulling it over. My 8-year-old was thrilled to move up to short stirrup: her first real courses; her first flat classes with a canter! Yippee! And these were proper courses—singles, diagonals, not just outside lines. She wasn’t intimidated; she was excited to do the “big kid stuff” like her sister.
Her first classes, just walk-trot, went smoothly. Then came her first real cantering class. Things were perfect until, out of nowhere, her saintly schoolmaster kicked out. Though she tried her darndest to stay on, he unseated her and she slid to the ground. When she popped up, a broken jack-in-the-box, dusty tears were staining her face.
They stopped the class, and she ran right into my open arms.
“I’m scared to get back on,” she whispered, her tears soaking my shirt. “And I’m embarrassed.”
“I get it,” I told her. “You can do whatever you’re comfortable with. No pressure if you don’t want to canter today. But it is important to get back on.”
Still sniffling, she mounted up. She finished four more classes. Though she trotted her fences rather than cantering, the crowd cheered mightily for her.
Strangers came up to her afterward with encouragement: “You almost stuck that! You’re brave!” She smiled a little brighter. “That wasn’t your fault! It came out of nowhere,” the EMT told her as we headed to the trailer to untack. I watched her posture change. She walked taller, confidence restored, soaking up the reassuring words—and basking in her own courage. She had confronted her worst fear and won.
And I knew that next time, she’ll press into her heels a little harder, sit up a little taller, be ready to face the unexpected.
After the show, we debriefed over Frappuccinos.
“I know things didn’t go exactly how you planned, but it was still a great day,” I said. She agreed. “It was an amazing day. But why did he do that?”
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“We won’t ever really know,” I admitted. “Could’ve been the photographer crouched in the grass. Could’ve been a nasty horsefly bite. Could’ve been an off day.” She waited for more. But I didn’t have more.
“Horses are horses. They’re not always predictable. And this stuff is going to happen again. It’s part of being a horse girl. You fall off. You get back on. It makes you stronger.” Then I pulled her close. “I’m proud of you.”
Luckily, that was enough for her.
As a mom, my instinct is to protect. To keep my kids safe. To rush in. To stop them from ever getting hurt.
But I keep learning to fight those instincts. Because by stepping back, letting them face the falls and the fears, I’m raising brave girls. Girls who don’t shrink from risk or failure, who know that bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s deciding to keep getting on the horse despite it.
And you know what else I’ve realized?
It isn’t just our horse kids who carry that kind of grit in their hearts. It’s us, too. The parents in muddy sneakers and sweat-stained baseball hats, clutching our cameras, standing at the rail with pitter-pattering hearts, cheering with smiles that mask our fears.
Parents who wake up in the dark to braid ponytails and secure bows. Who sacrifice our own dreams to write checks for lessons. All the while, quietly hoping each time for another safe ride.
All of us who fight the urge to wrap our kids in bubble wrap, and instead whisper, “You’ve got this.” Or as I like to say to my kids, “You’re a beast.”
It takes a special kind of courage to let your kids fall. And an even greater kind of love to encourage them to get back on.
Jamie Sindell has an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and has ridden and owned hunters on and off throughout her life. She is a mom of five kids, ages 4 to 15. She and her family reside at Wish List Farm, where her horse-crazy girls play with their pony and her son and husband play with the tractor.
