What My Catastrophic Show Jumping Round Taught Me About Reset

There are ordinary disappointing rounds, and then there are rounds that seem to unravel in real time. Mine began with a tense approach, continued through a refusal, and somehow gathered momentum as every small mistake made the next fence feel larger. By the time we left the arena, I was replaying every stride and wondering how a horse-and-rider partnership that felt so capable at home could look so lost under competition pressure.

The lesson was not that I needed to become braver overnight or find a magical schooling exercise. I needed to learn how to reset. That meant interrupting the mental spiral, noticing what my horse was actually telling me, and giving both of us a clear next step instead of dragging the previous mistake towards the next fence. It was a lesson about show jumping, but it reached into training, preparation, family life, and the whole emotional rhythm of eventing.

The Round That Kept Getting Bigger

We arrived at the show before the day had properly warmed up, with the familiar Australian competition routine already in motion: floats parked across the grounds, riders walking briskly between yards and arenas, and someone carrying a flat white while checking the order of go. At Werribee, the open spaces can make a course look deceptively inviting. From the gate, my track seemed straightforward, with generous distances and colourful fences that had looked perfectly manageable during the course walk.

The first fence was not dramatic. I saw a distance, changed my mind, and allowed my upper body to become busy. My horse hesitated, and we chipped in awkwardly. We jumped it, but I rode away feeling as though I had narrowly avoided disaster. Instead of softening and moving on, I carried that feeling to fence two. I held too much, then pushed too late, and my horse stopped.

That refusal should have been information. It told me that my communication had become unclear and that our rhythm needed rebuilding. Instead, I treated it as evidence that the round was already ruined. My hands tightened, my breathing became shallow, and the course stopped being a series of individual questions. It became one enormous problem.

We had another stop later, followed by a rail, and I finished with the hollow embarrassment that comes from knowing the result reflected neither your usual work nor your horse’s real ability. I apologised to everyone before anyone had blamed me. My family tried to be encouraging, my coach pointed out useful details, and my horse stood quietly as if the entire performance had been much less significant than I believed.

A Reset Is A Physical Action

My first mistake after the round was trying to solve it while still flooded with adrenaline. I walked back to the float, pulled off my gloves, and began conducting a forensic investigation of every stride. That kind of analysis can feel productive, but in the first few minutes it was just self-criticism wearing a sensible jacket.

A reset needed to happen in my body before it could happen in my thinking. I loosened my jaw, dropped my shoulders, and took several deliberate breaths with a longer exhale. I walked my horse, let him stretch his neck, and paid attention to the ordinary things around us: hooves on gravel, birds in the trees, the clink of a bucket, and the smell of dusty grass. These small observations brought me back to the actual day instead of the imaginary version where I kept jumping the same failed approach.

Breathing is not a decorative relaxation technique for riders who already feel calm. It is part of the aids. A held breath often arrives with a locked pelvis, rigid hands, and a tendency to chase the distance. I had previously found the idea explained clearly in this piece about breathing in eventing, and the failed round finally made the point practical. If I wanted my horse to find rhythm, I had to offer rhythm first.

The physical reset also gave me a boundary. The round was over. I could review it later with a coach, write down what mattered, and decide what to practise. I did not need to relive it for the rest of the afternoon while standing beside the float at a Victorian showground.

My Horse Was Giving Me Information

In the days after the competition, I watched the video several times with the sound turned down. Without the commentary in my head, I could see my horse’s body more honestly. His stride shortened before the first fence, his neck became tight, and his ears flicked back towards me when I changed my balance. He was not being difficult or suddenly incapable. He was responding to a rider who had become unpredictable.

That distinction mattered. It protected me from blaming him, but it also stopped me from turning the entire experience into a story about my own failure. The partnership had not disappeared. We had both become less clear, and I had missed his early attempts to tell me that he needed a more supportive ride.

Reading a horse before a jump is a skill worth developing away from competition pressure. The signs are often subtle: a change in tempo, a lifted head, a drifting shoulder, a back that feels less elastic, or an ear that keeps checking in. I revisited these details through horse body language, then applied them during ordinary arena sessions rather than waiting for another crisis.

At home, I began asking a simpler question of each approach: was I creating the conditions for a good effort? That meant maintaining a consistent canter, keeping my eyes up, and making a decision early enough that my horse could understand it. If the answer was no, I started again before the fence. A reset did not always mean stopping. Often it meant returning to a balanced circle, breathing, and approaching with a clearer plan.

Practising The Moment After A Mistake

I used to practise jumping as though the important skill ended when the front feet left the ground. In reality, the stride after a fence often determines the next one. A horse needs to land and rebalance, while a rider needs to absorb the result without immediately judging it. If the jump is perfect, the temptation is to celebrate. If it is untidy, the temptation is to punish or panic. Neither reaction creates a reliable rhythm.

My coach helped me build reset points into schooling. We jumped small fences from both reins, included poles on the ground, and deliberately made exercises less dramatic than the competition course. After a rail or an awkward approach, I was instructed to soften my hands, ride forward to a designated marker, and organise the canter before making another attempt. The aim was not to pretend mistakes had not happened. It was to prevent one mistake from becoming the theme of the session.

We also practised transitions and changes of direction between fences. These exercises taught me that control did not require gripping. A balanced transition down to trot, followed by a calm return to canter, could restore communication more effectively than pushing harder. I became more interested in the quality of the recovery than in producing a flawless sequence every time.

This approach is especially useful in eventing, where a rider must move between dressage, show jumping, and cross-country without carrying the emotional residue of one phase into another. A tense dressage mark cannot be allowed to dictate the show-jumping warm-up. A rail cannot be carried into the start box. Each phase deserves attention, and each can begin again with the next useful action.

Preparation Has To Include Real Life

Resetting became easier when my preparation became more realistic. In Australia, competition days involve plenty of logistics before a rider ever enters the arena. A trip from Melbourne to a regional venue can mean an early start, a float check, feed packed in labelled bags, and a careful eye on the weather. At a summer event, heat can affect both horse and rider long before the first bell, so cooling, water, shade, and timing are part of performance preparation rather than optional extras.

The cost of the sport also shapes the way we prepare. Agistment, lessons, fuel, entry fees, farrier appointments, and repairs to an older float all compete for attention in the household budget. I cannot create a perfect professional training environment every week. Sometimes a session happens in a busy local arena, sometimes it is a quiet hack along a fire trail, and sometimes the most valuable work is ten minutes of calm transitions before dinner.

That reality changed my definition of readiness. I no longer measure preparation only by how many fences we jumped. I check whether my gear is organised, whether my horse has had time to settle, whether I have eaten something sensible, and whether I know the first job of the warm-up. A practical kit, from familiar gloves to reliable riding clothing, reduces needless decisions; I keep a few dependable training essentials ready rather than buying something new in a panic before a show.

Competition customs can help too. I have learned to accept the supportive chaos of Australian horse events: the shared sunscreen, the borrowed hoof pick, the friend calling out a changed start time, and the inevitable sausage-sizzle stop after the last class. These ordinary rituals return the day to its proper size. A result matters, but it is one part of a life built around horses and people.

The reset I needed was not a single breath after a refusal. It was a repeatable process: notice, soften, organise, and continue. I can use it after a poor jump, a disappointing dressage score, a hard conversation, or a week when training does not go to plan. The catastrophic round gave me a memorable lesson because it exposed how quickly fear can take over when I treat a mistake as a verdict.

Now, when something goes wrong, I aim to make the next moment smaller. I look for the next clear aid, the next balanced stride, and the next kind thing I can do for my horse and myself. Take that practice into your next schooling session: choose one deliberate reset point, breathe through it, and reward the return to rhythm rather than waiting for perfection.