I just lived through one of those disaster weeks.

It started with the USDF FEI Trainers’ Conference. I’d been selected to ride on Elvis, and I thought it would be a good exposure moment for him as I work to add members to his syndicate. But I’d also entered a CDI for later in the week, and when we started playing with some big changes to my warm-up routine in the clinic on Monday, I realized I needed a new plan. (A clinic can be a wonderful opportunity to try something new, but I know from experience that making major changes right before you show seldom works out.)

They graciously let me sub in my mom’s wonderful Lusitano, Helio, who is 9 and very much still developing. We spent the first half hour talking about his self-carriage, notably his tendency to be a bit too round, and the challenges of how to address that issue. I was very proud of the little guy for stepping up so beautifully, and I posted a quick clip of him working the canter with Olympian Ashley Holzer, only to have the Klassikal Kowboys of Facebook™ get a hold of it and send it viral because—gasp!—there were moments in time where he was imperfect in the contact.

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Greetings from Florida, where my team is safely ensconced. We had a boring drive down—my favorite kind—and the horses arrived safely. We’re all settled in, we’re riding, we’re working, we’re juggling the holidays and the persistent rain days, and we’re absolutely ready to go… but don’t really have anywhere to go.

This is my longest Floridian winter: four months, as opposed to our usual three. My clients wanted to stay longer, so we’re staying longer. It meant we got here before Christmas, so by the time the horses were settled in, it was holiday-palooza, so they had an inconsistent work schedule all of last week. But everyone feels good, and the plan for the season is coming together.

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And that was that. Seven weeks went by, and my hand healed. The pins came out on Tuesday afternoon, I rode Elvis—the one of my animals I trust not to be strong or feral or both—Wednesday morning. Farm holiday party Thursday morning, followed by packing-palooza Thursday afternoon. “Christmas” dinner with my partner and his kids Friday night. And then hopping in my truck with most of my stuff and the best dog ever for the two-day drive to Welly-world.

I can’t say that the time has “flown by.” It’s been tedious and frustrating. My hand hurt, a lot, for a long time. I felt like a baby for not be

ing able to push through; forget wanting to ride, I just wanted to be able to do ANYTHING, and any activity that got my heart rate up was a no-no, because of the pain and the swelling. So my very fit and trim, eating great and riding five to six horses a day and going to the gym four days a week self, had to be basically sedentary for the duration of my healing. I’m heading to Florida with a body that feels like a ton of bricks; a right hand that, while liberated from the pins, is stiff as hell and filled with awe-inspiring swelling; and more than a little frustration.

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Whenever I go through a crisis, I always ask myself, “What can I learn from this experience? What can I do better?”

I’ve learned a few things from my recent broken hand experience: that horses are silly, that hands are fragile, that appropriate pain medication is wonderful, and that good people are even better.

But I’ve also learned a lot about health care, and how phenomenally expensive it is in the United States. This is not new information to me, but I’ve been so fortunate as to not really have anything go exceptionally wrong in my adult life as far as my health is concerned. As a self-employed person, I get my health insurance through the ACA exchange, and I have an extremely high deductible. But since I rarely see a doctor more than twice a year, just for routine care, I hadn’t really given it a thought.

And then this: The surgery to insert two (removable, thank goodness) pins from my hand cost me more than $3,000, cash upfront. The bills have not yet begun to roll in for all of the other visits with specialists, therapists and follow-ups, but I can’t even begin to imagine. I’m sure that they will get close to, but not actually touch my massive deductible. Which means I’m on the hook for the whole hog.

This could have been a phenomenal strain on my resources, something I’d be paying off for a while. And I’m lucky that this is such a minor thing: What if I had done my pelvis, or my spine, or my brain? What if I’d required an ambulance ride or a hospital stay?

But I have something called a Health Savings Account, or HSA, and I think that everyone should have one, especially all of my wonderful 20-something horse girls who should start saving right now, because the reality is that in this business, it’s only a matter of time.

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In my center desk drawer in my office at the farm, I keep a rejection letter from The Dressage Foundation. It was from the first time that I’d applied for the Carol Lavell Prize, and it went to two other people that year. I keep it because of the handwritten note from Carol herself on the letter: “High performance means never give up, never give in.” I’ve applied for her grant three times, and for other grants ranging from small to $25,000 at least 10 times at this point, and I have yet to receive one.

I celebrate each rejection.

Not because I wouldn’t like the money. Of course I would; it would be awfully nice to get a little help in this expensive sport. But each time I am told no, each time I am told that I am not good enough, that I lack the qualities they’re looking for, it only strengthens my resolve to prove them wrong.

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While my broken hand changed my plans regarding the U.S. Dressage Finals, it did not cancel them, because I had two students qualified in the amateur and open Grand Prix divisions. And when you have students at that level, you go, broken or not!

In addition to being exceptionally good riders on wonderful horses, Abe Pugh and Jenn Drescher are also some of my favorite humans, and getting to spend time with them is always a pleasure. And my favorite thing about big shows like national championships is that everyone from all over the country gets together in one place, so it’s an efficient way to see friends from everywhere and catch up.

The finals are just a splendid horse show. They get to pull from all of the A teams from show management and volunteer crews around the country: the best show secretaries, the best ring stewards, the best technical delegates, the best press corps and media coverage, the best of everything. It means the show runs like a well oiled machine, and that is always a joy.

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I had this plan.

My friend and coach Ali Brock was scheduled to come to Aleco and Sandra Bravo-Greenberg’s gorgeous Rutledge Farm, just a short hike away in Middleburg, Virginia, for a clinic as part of their Rutledge Farm Sessions clinic series. The clinic was not only a chance for me to get some lessons on Elvis, who is 2.5 weeks out from the U.S. Dressage Finals, but also an opportunity to get some nice press coverage of my wonderful horse who is, ahem, owned by a syndicate with shares still available.

And then, as Ali would be stopping at her Virginia base for a few days before returning to Florida, I thought I’d seize the moment and bring Puck down to her, to have lessons in the privacy of her own farm on my horse who’s not always ready for public consumption.

Swell plan, right? I even had a blog in mind touching on the differences between riding in a public symposium versus a lesson in private.

What I didn’t plan for was the broken hand.

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One of the beautiful things about dressage is that there are so many levels at which to play. I don’t just mean training level versus third level versus Prix St. Georges versus Grand Prix; I mean that there are schooling shows, recognized shows, CDIs, and various regional and national championship tracks. My original goal for Elvis this year was the USEF Developing Prix St. Georges Championships, a track dedicated to 7-9-year-old horses, and a program for which the bar is fantastically high. The top 15 in the country go; I was 19th. Close, but no cigar.

So when that ship sailed, I made a new goal: the U.S. Dressage Finals in Lexington, Kentucky, in November. Qualifying for Finals requires either taking champion or reserve, or earning a “wildcard” score above a certain qualifying threshold at one of the nine regional championships. I live in Region 1, which has lots of very quality trainers on quality horses. The Prix St. Georges open championship tends to be one of the bigger ones. And Elvis and I drew a time early in the class.

I gave Elvis the month of August to fluff around, letting him do some basic work, plus some hills, plus some in-hand work as I forge ahead on Operation Piaffe, all geared towards letting him be productive, but not overwhelmingly fit, through the hottest of the Virginia summer. In September, I put him back to real work, and for the first time, I leaned on him for conditioning. Our rides were longer. I really got on his case about self-carriage, which has been the biggest bugaboo for us. I made him TIRED. The week before the show, I kept our collective noses to the grindstone. I’ve upped my own fitness program, and I didn’t back down on either of us until Saturday when I caught Elvis napping midday—unusual for him—and declared victory. He hacked Sunday. He had Monday off. He schooled lightly on Tuesday, just thinking sharp and bright to the aids. We drove to North Carolina on Wednesday, where I did the same.

And on Thursday, I popped on my tailcoat, and off we went.

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In the last decade, I’ve embraced the educational approach of having one coach. Too many voices in my head aren’t good for me or for my riding; it seemed to muddy the waters. Over the last nine years, I’ve dabbled in the occasional clinic with phenomenal people—USEF and USDF training sessions with the team coaches or other very accomplished names, and the Masterclass with Isabell Werth this winter—but all with my coach at my side to frame the new perspective into context and to help translate into a system with which I’m familiar.

Late this summer, I lost that coach. In August, Michael Barisone, who’s been my trainer, my mentor, my family and my friend for nine years, was charged with shooting a woman at his farm. The details of the crime will be tried in a court of law, and since I wasn’t there, and I’m not a lawyer, that’s the beginning and end of my role in this tale.

But I’m a professional rider with lofty goals, and that means I had to find a new trainer. It’s been awkward and difficult and horribly sad. After going through the stages of grieving, I looked at my string of magnificent horses, all too precious to have their ascendence to High Performance Sport sent askew by my sadness. And so I started the process of forging new coaching partnerships.

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