What A Failed Dressage Test Taught Me About Perfectionism

I arrived at the competition with a plan that looked sensible on paper. My horse had been working forward, the transitions were becoming more reliable, and our preparation rides had given me enough confidence to believe we were ready. I had studied the test, packed the float, checked the bridle twice and mentally rehearsed every movement before we left home.

Then the test unravelled in a way that felt completely disproportionate to the actual mistakes. A transition was late, one circle became more oval than round, and my horse lost focus when I tightened through my back. Nothing dramatic happened, yet I rode out of the arena feeling as though I had failed an exam that revealed something terrible about my ability. That failed dressage test taught me that perfectionism can disguise itself as preparation while quietly making both horse and rider tense.

The Test Looked Better On Paper

The days before the event had been full of reassuring details. I had run through the test at home, checked the arena letters and chosen a warm-up plan that allowed enough time to settle without making my horse tired. I had even looked at the competition schedule on the event calendar so I could work out when to feed, plait and load.

Australian competitions often require a surprising amount of logistical thinking. A horse trial outside Melbourne can mean an early start, a long float trip and a forecast that changes from cold wind to bright sun before the first horse enters the arena. At a Sydney or Werribee venue, parking, warm-up space and the order of classes can affect the whole morning. I had handled those practical details competently, but I confused a well-organised day with a guaranteed result.

My notes were full of small instructions: keep the shoulders straight, prepare earlier, maintain the rhythm, breathe before the free walk. Each point was reasonable by itself. Together, they became a crowded list that left no room for feel. I was riding the test I wanted to produce rather than listening to the horse underneath me.

When Accuracy Becomes Anxiety

Perfectionism rarely announces itself as fear. It often sounds responsible. It tells me that one more practice will prevent embarrassment, that checking the girth again is sensible, and that a single weak mark will undo all the work behind it. In dressage, where every movement is visible and every coefficient appears on the score sheet, that voice can become particularly persuasive.

I entered at A already thinking about the final halt. Instead of allowing the first movement to establish the rhythm, I was predicting the judge’s comments. I wanted every corner to be precise and every transition to happen at the exact stride I had imagined. When my horse hesitated for half a second, I responded with more effort instead of clearer communication.

That extra effort travelled straight through my body. My seat became fixed, my hands lost their softness and my breathing became shallow. The irony was painful: I was trying to show a polished partnership, but my fear of making an error was making it harder for my horse to trust the information I was giving him. The pursuit of an immaculate test created the very tension that interrupted it.

The Horse Was Reading Me

My horse did not enter the arena determined to expose my shortcomings. He entered wondering whether the environment felt safe and whether I would remain consistent. He noticed the busy warm-up, the loudspeaker, the horse leaving the arena and the way I changed as soon as we approached the judge.

He also noticed that I was no longer riding the same way I had at home. I had been patient in training, allowing him to find balance and rewarding honest attempts. At the competition, I became preoccupied with preventing mistakes. When he drifted away from the track, I corrected sharply. When he offered a slightly hurried transition, I held rather than reorganising the rhythm.

This reminded me of a previous refusal, when I eventually realised that my horse was responding to confusion rather than being stubborn. I wrote about that experience in learning from a refusal, and the same lesson applied here: the horse is often answering the question we actually ask, not the one we believe we asked. My aids had become anxious, and his responses reflected that uncertainty.

Preparation Is More Than Repetition

Before this event, I had treated preparation as the number of times we could complete the test without a visible error. That approach gave me useful familiarity, but it did not prepare me for nerves, a distracted horse or a moment when a movement did not go according to plan. I had practised the sequence; I had not practised recovering.

A better training session now includes deliberate interruptions. I may ride a transition after a pause, change the rein when my horse expects to continue, or ask for a movement after allowing my attention to soften. Sometimes I ride the test without focusing on marks at all. The goal is to keep the partnership available when conditions are imperfect.

This matters in the Australian competition environment, where a test can be influenced by heat, glare, wind, unfamiliar footing or a warm-up arena that feels more crowded than expected. At a local pony club event or a larger fixture at Werribee, the surroundings will never reproduce the quiet of home. Preparation needs to include emotional flexibility, not just technical repetition.

I am also learning to separate readiness from certainty. A horse and rider do not need to feel completely calm before they compete. They need enough tools to return to rhythm, balance and communication when nerves appear. That is a much more useful standard than expecting a flawless performance from the first salute.

A Better Definition Of Success

When I first looked at the score sheet, I went straight to the marks that confirmed my worst thoughts. I barely noticed the sections where my horse stayed willing, the moments when the rhythm returned or the judge’s comments acknowledged his good qualities. Perfectionism has a selective memory; it enlarges the disappointing details and edits out the evidence of progress.

Later, I wrote down what had gone well. We loaded and travelled without trouble. My horse settled after the first few minutes at the venue. I managed to keep riding after the late transition rather than mentally abandoning the test. The final halt was not spectacular, but it was quiet and straight enough to finish with dignity. These were not consolation prizes. They were part of the performance.

Writing helped because it gave the experience somewhere to go. I like using a simple notebook for competition notes, alongside small pieces of Japanese stationery that make the ritual feel considered rather than punitive. I record the horse’s behaviour, my physical sensations, one technical priority and one thing I appreciated. The exercise turns a score into information.

Success now means leaving with something accurate to work on and enough confidence to try again. A low mark can contain useful detail, while a good mark can conceal tension that needs attention. Neither result should become a verdict on the relationship or on my identity as a rider.

Making Room For The Next Attempt

The hardest part was not the test itself. It was the story I told afterwards. For several hours, I described the round as a failure, even though the mistakes were ordinary and fixable. That language made the experience heavier than it needed to be and encouraged me to avoid looking closely at what had actually happened.

I am trying to replace judgement with observation. Instead of saying, “I ruined the test,” I can say, “I became tight after the first mistake and stopped riding the rhythm.” That sentence is less dramatic, but it gives me a route forward. It points towards breathing, softer hands and a deliberate return to the horse’s tempo.

This shift is especially important in eventing, where dressage is one phase of a much larger day. A rider cannot carry one disappointing mark into show jumping and cross-country without affecting the rest of the competition. Even outside the arena, there is tack to check, food to organise and a horse who needs a steady person. The sport rewards recovery as much as polish.

At home, that may mean mounting after a poor lesson and doing something simple and positive instead of drilling the same movement until both of us are frustrated. At a competition, it may mean walking to the float, offering water, eating something myself and returning to the next task. Resilience is often built through these unglamorous decisions.

What I Am Taking Into Training

The first change is physical. Before entering the arena, I want to notice whether I am holding my breath, locking my knees or gripping with my thighs. A longer exhale will not solve every training issue, but it gives my body a chance to communicate more clearly. My horse should feel a rider who is present, not a collection of corrections waiting for an error.

The second change is technical. I will keep working on the basics that support confidence: forward rhythm, accurate transitions, straightness and a balanced connection. I will also include more opportunities to reward the try. If my horse offers a better transition after a muddled attempt, I want to recognise that improvement rather than immediately demanding perfection.

The third change is emotional. I am allowed to be ambitious without making every competition a test of worth. Equestrian life already contains enough variables, from rising feed costs and limited agistment availability to busy roads and long travel days. Many Australian riders make the sport work around jobs, family commitments and distances that would be unimaginable at a compact European venue. There is no value in adding an impossible internal standard to that list.

I still want to improve my scores. I still want an accurate, expressive dressage test and the satisfaction that comes from a well-executed plan. The difference is that I no longer want precision to come at the expense of trust. The most meaningful progress may be a calmer preparation, a clearer aid or the ability to continue riding after something goes wrong.

That failed test did not prove that I was incapable. It showed me where perfectionism had begun to interfere with the partnership I was trying so hard to protect. The next test may still contain an untidy circle or a late transition. I hope to meet those moments with enough perspective to keep communicating, keep learning and keep the day in proportion.

Follow along with the ongoing training, competition recaps and honest lessons from life around eventing at Mania in the Middle. The useful work continues between score sheets: ride with attention, record what you learn and give both yourself and your horse room to improve.