OMG! I Thought I Was Going to Die...

The ride where getting off was the bravest—and smartest—thing I did (apologies for the swear words therein contained)

I share plenty of good moments with my horses: the breakthroughs, the softness, the connection and those rides where the hard work finally seems to click.

But not every ride is like that.

Sometimes it is shit. Yep, shit!

Sometimes your experienced horse becomes completely overwhelmed, your own survival instincts start screaming, and the best decision you can make is to get off.

This is one of those stories.

Meet Maestro: My Beautiful, Complicated Old Boy

Over a recent long weekend, I decided to train with Maestro, my 19-year-old Friesian x Stock Horse gelding.

I have known Maestro for more than a decade. He is an anxious nelly, a complex ride and absolutely not a beginner’s horse.

Riding him well requires feel. You need to notice the smallest signs of anxiety because, if they are missed, those little signs can escalate within seconds. Maestro is not for the faint-hearted.

I have spent years helping him regulate his emotions and de-escalate when he feels unsafe. I did not raise him from birth. When I bought him, I inherited the experiences, learned fears and triggers created throughout his earlier life.

Old associations do not always disappear just because we build better ones. Their intensity can reduce and a horse can learn safer ways to cope, but under the wrong combination of circumstances, those old responses can surface again.

I know this horse extraordinarily well.

The Calm Before the Absolute Shitshow

I groomed and tacked Maestro up as usual. He was calm as a cucumber as we made our way to the arena.

A friend needed me to film her riding, so I placed Maestro in a yard beside the arena while I helped her.

Maestro then decided this was the perfect time to roll—with his expensive saddle still attached.

Excellent choice, mate.

I interrupted the attempt before he got far enough to damage himself or the saddle, removed the tack and went back to filming (sorry friend for the untimely, unsafe interruption to your videoing).

Eventually, my friend and her horse left. Maestro and I were alone in the arena, although other horses were still visible in the distance.

We had worked there alone before. This was not a brand-new situation.

The Warning Signs

I always begin with groundwork so I can assess where Maestro is mentally and physically before I ride.

To be clear: this is not lunging. I use purposeful groundwork to observe how he is moving, where he is holding tension and whether his brain is available for the session.

I normally bring both a driving whip and a flag. With everything else happening that day, I had forgotten the flag.

I also usually walk around the arena in both directions. Horses notice environmental changes that humans easily miss, and this gives Maestro time to look and process. It also lets me observe his body for stiffness, tightness or short steps before deciding what the session needs.

I am basically his personal trainer (+ psychologist, guardian, financial sponsor and the list goes on)—without the activewear or inspirational water bottle.

As soon as we began walking, Maestro snapped his head up and started snorting.

He was not looking at anything obvious. I scanned the perimeter and horizon, trying to identify the danger he believed was there.

I could see nothing.

But Maestro could feel something—or believed he could. He screamed out to his fellow horse companions... they all called back.

Noted.

Then Maestro Exploded

Maestro almost bowled me over twice. He kicked out several times, with one kick coming frighteningly close to my head.

Yes, I was wearing my helmet.

I worked through familiar grounding exercises, trying to help him bring his attention and body back to me.

Instead, he escalated.

He was sweating heavily and had moved far beyond his usual anxious state. This was no longer a horse with a few worried thoughts. This was a horse whose survival response had taken over. Enter cortisol!

In my head, it felt like he had entered the anxiety “I’m-going-to-kill-you” mode.

Maestro was not plotting my death. He was overwhelmed and reacting—but the danger to me was still very real. I had to stay super grounded and not contribute anything to the escalation but instead stay calm and show how safety can be in mental stillness with confidence.

I did not have my usual flag, which is part of several familiar exercises we use to help him search, redirect and soften. But forgetting one tool was not the cause of this situation, nor would carrying it have guaranteed a different outcome.

No piece of equipment replaces feeling and judgement.

The Decision I Would Not Make Again

After working with him on the ground and he had settled somewhat, I made the decision to mount.

At the time, I thought I might be able to help him more clearly through familiar ridden cues and movement. As I had done this before with great success.

In hindsight, I should have listened to what he had already shown me.

He had nearly knocked me over. He had kicked out near my head. He was covered in sweat and unable to settle through exercises he knew.

He was telling me that he was not available for ridden work.

I mounted. He was standing quietly and his ears were flicking back to me.

As soon as I got on, Maestro reversed quickly and slammed into the arena fence. (He's never done this ever!) I didn't reprimand him just gently and calmly stroked his wither telling him he was ok.

I prepared to ask him to walk forward, beginning softly with my seat.

The instant I did, I felt a ball of pure explosion form beneath me.

In all my years of owning and riding Maestro, I had never felt anything like it.

Every part of me knew what was about to happen if I stayed there.

So I got off.

Immediately.

That decision may have prevented a catastrophic accident.

Getting Off Was Not Giving Up

Getting off did not instantly make the situation easy.

I took my time getting Maestro safely from the arena to the untacking area. I retrieved my flag and moved to the round yard, where I used a short series of familiar exercises that had helped him regulate many times before.

In under five minutes, he came back down.

His breathing changed. His body softened. The horse I knew became reachable again.

I washed him down and then took a long, quiet walk with plenty of stops and soft back-up steps before returning him to his paddock. This is his nervous system regulating again.

I was not asking him to “earn” access to his herd or trying to punish his anxiety. I simply wanted the transition to be calm because, by that point, it was safe for both of us to take that time. If it had not been safe, I would have chosen the simplest and safest route home.

Because Apparently We Needed a Snake as Well

Just as I was about to release Maestro, Thor jumped as though he had been zapped by the electric fence.

Then I saw it: a roughly 1.5-metre squiggly thing slithering away.

A snake.

Because apparently the day was not yet dramatic enough.

I immediately tried to identify what type it was and checked Thor carefully in case he had been bitten and needed urgent veterinary attention. (He was fine! But I stayed around over 30 minutes to be sure.)

Said picture of red bellied blacksnake:

Was a snake—or another unseen stimulus—part of what Maestro had sensed earlier? I honestly do not know. It may have been connected or completely unrelated. He could have been sensing it from his herd still in the paddock and so as herd leader he was anxious to be there to attend to them. I will never know.

Not having a neat explanation is uncomfortable, but inventing one would not make it true.

Maestro had also recently been seen by his veterinarian and bodyworker. Even so, any sudden or uncharacteristic behavioural change deserves to be taken seriously, with pain, health, tack and environmental factors considered rather than everything being automatically labelled “anxiety.”

Then My Body Let Go

Once both horses were safe and everything was finally over, I collapsed into a heap in the paddock and cried.

Throughout the entire experience, I had forced myself to remain grounded. I had slowed my breathing, controlled my movements and tried not to add any fear to Maestro’s. That takes a lot of mental and emotional strength. It's tiring!

Once I no longer needed to hold everything together, my own stress response arrived all at once.

It felt as though Maestro’s anxiety had filled my cup until it overflowed. Maybe I had absorbed some of his worry empathetically. Maybe my body had simply delayed processing its own fear until we were safe.

Either way, the tears came—and so did the self-doubt.

How did I miss this? Why couldn’t I help him sooner? Am I good enough to do this?

Those questions can be brutal, especially when you care deeply about doing right by your horse.

“Ride or Die” Is a Terrible Training Plan

Here is the lesson I want other riders to take from my shit day:

It is okay to get off when things get too real. Preferably before it escalates.

Getting off is not defeat.

It does not mean your horse has “won.”

It does not mean you are weak, unskilled or not brave enough.

Sometimes getting off is the most experienced decision available to you.

We ride large, powerful animals whose fear responses can seriously injure or kill us. No training principle, exercise, expectation or concern about what somebody watching might think is worth gambling your life over, or theirs.

There is no trophy for staying aboard until the situation becomes an accident.

There is no shame in stopping, reassessing and helping the horse find a calmer state from a safer position—or ending the session entirely.

Tomorrow Is Another Day

Not every ride will be beautiful.

Sometimes years of experience will help you catch the small signs early. Sometimes a familiar horse will escalate faster or further than you have ever felt before. Sometimes you will make a decision that, in hindsight, you would change.

That does not erase everything you know or all the good work you and your horse have done together.

It makes you human.

You are allowed to get off.

You are allowed to stop. I would choose safety earlier—not because I love Maestro less or lack confidence, but because I love both of us enough to want another day together.

You are allowed to cry afterwards.

And when you and your horse are safe, supported and ready, there is another day to try again.