What my most embarrassing dressage moment taught me

There is one dressage test I can replay in my head with uncomfortable clarity. It happened at a small spring competition near Camden, south-west of Sydney, where the morning began cool and quickly turned warm. My horse and I had a sensible warm-up, the arena felt familiar, and I knew the test. Then, in the final movement, I made a small error and turned it into a very public one.

The mistake happened during the transition from medium trot to canter. My horse did not depart on my first aid, so I repeated the leg, tightened the reins and tried to organise her with my seat. She cantered two strides late, drifted across the arena and arrived with a different energy for the final halt. In the middle of it all, I heard myself mutter, “Canter, please”. The words were not part of any planned test.

The painful part was that I had prepared thoroughly. I had highlighted the test sheet, ridden the movements at home and told myself that familiarity would carry me through. Instead, pressure crept into my hands, my breathing became shallow and the horse followed that tension. What everybody else saw as an ordinary test error, I experienced as the collapse of an entire plan.

The lesson was not about making a perfect performance. It was about becoming honest about the conversation between horse and rider. Nerves do not disappear because a rider has done everything possible beforehand. A useful preparation plan makes room for nerves, fatigue, unfamiliar surroundings and a horse who needs a moment to understand what is being asked.

The test I knew but could not ride

For weeks before the competition, I treated the test like a script. I read each movement aloud, marked the transitions and worked through the arena in my imagination before I even got on. On paper, I knew exactly where the collected trot began, where the shoulder-in ended and how many strides I had to adjust before the canter.

Knowing a test and riding it under pressure are different abilities. The test sheet gives you a sequence, but it cannot tell you how your horse will respond after a busy warm-up arena, a long horse-float journey or twenty minutes of sitting in the car park eating muesli bars. At Camden, several classes shared the warm-up area, so there were horses changing gait beside me, voices calling numbers and a horse-loader reversing through the entrance.

I had also turned preparation into a performance in my own mind. If I could not ride the test exactly as planned, I had somehow failed the horse. That approach gave me clarity on a quiet day, but at competition it made every small deviation feel enormous. The better question was not, “Why did she not do what I wanted?” It was, “What is she telling me now?”

When my aids became a tug-of-war

When my horse did not canter cleanly, my first response was to add pressure. More leg, more rein, more determination. From her side, the aids probably felt like several unrelated instructions arriving at once instead of one clear request to move forwards.

The outside rein I used to straighten her also blocked her shoulder. My attempt to hurry the transition made the following halt more difficult. I was trying to solve a timing problem by tightening everything, including my own face. Years of riding have taught me that a horse can feel frustration long before a human chooses to name it.

That day, the mistake was mine, but the horse was not an opponent. She was responding to confusing information in the only way she could. Once I softened the reins and allowed a stride, the canter came. It was late and crooked, yet it was connected. The difference was important: one came from conflict, the other from listening.

I had chosen a neat competition jacket from Luo Mo Col Martello, partly because I wanted to look as though nothing could shake me. The polished outfit only sharpened the joke. Good presentation cannot disguise nerves from the horse, and pretending that you are invincible is rarely the most useful kind of preparation.

The twenty seconds nobody else could see

Inside the arena, the error felt much larger than the few seconds it occupied. The judge could see a late canter and an uneven halt. I could see the whole pattern: my hands tightening, my shoulders rising, the breath disappearing and every aid arriving half a beat too late.

There were ordinary distractions around me too. Flies settled near the rails, an umbrella moved beside the ring and a dog barked from the car park. None of those things caused the error, but they gave my nervous mind something else to track. On a familiar arena at home, I might have ignored them. At a competition, every sound seemed to contain a personal message.

After the final salute, the embarrassment stayed with me longer than the score. I imagined riders discussing my test while checking the results on the board. The reality was kinder: competitors were loading horses, discussing their own missed transitions and comparing the quickest route back to the truck. Embarrassment made the moment feel private, even though it was a tiny part of a busy Australian competition day.

That difference matters. A competition contains hundreds of small mistakes. Most of them are noticed only by the person who made them, and most can be useful when they are allowed to become information rather than shame.

The judge’s notes cut through the noise

When I finally read the test sheet, the judge’s remarks were kinder and more precise than the story spinning in my head. There were comments about tension through the transitions and inconsistent rein contact. There was also praise for the quality of the trot and the way the horse tried to work downhill when she felt comfortable.

I had mentally rewritten the test as a total disaster because that felt safer than leaving it ambiguous. If everything had been awful, I could condemn the whole ride. The actual notes gave me a more useful picture. The basic work was there; the problems had appeared when my body became tight and my aids lost clarity.

A useful debrief needs both halves. “You rode badly” is too blunt to guide training, while “Your right rein is lovely” can leave the important problem untouched. I needed to hear that my horse could do the work when I stayed present, and that I needed to release tension rather than demand a result.

At the canteen, the barman was serving sausage rolls, iced coffee and fruit while riders compared notes under the shade marquee. The unofficial debrief was often as valuable as the official one. My coach asked what I had felt in the transition, and I realised I had been so busy trying to force the canter that I had stopped listening for it.

A plan should bend before the horse does

After Camden, I changed how I organise competitions. I still prepare thoroughly, but preparation now includes a clear hierarchy of priorities: the horse’s health and comfort come first, then the key movements, then the rest of the test. A polished sequence on paper cannot outrank a lame horse, a frightened horse or a rider who has lost the ability to think clearly.

I also use the competition schedule to check start times, arenas and warm-up details rather than relying on an old screenshot or a half-remembered message. That sounds basic, yet schedule mix-ups create extra stress before a test. I want the administrative part of the day to be boring.

Living between Australian cities makes adaptability especially practical. Sydney traffic can turn a generous arrival window into a tight one, Melbourne competitions often arrive with drizzle clinging to a wool coat, and Brisbane heat can make an early start essential. I now carry more water, check the weather before leaving and build in enough time to walk the horse quietly rather than rushing straight to a crowded warm-up.

The competition plan has become flexible by design. If the arena is busy, I shorten the warm-up. If the horse gives a less confident first stride, I simplify the test. If my breathing turns shallow, I use the walk to reset. A plan should provide direction without turning every unexpected moment into evidence that I have lost control.

The better partnership starts with listening

The most durable change was in how I listened to the horse. I had been so focused on delivering the next correct movement that I sometimes treated the horse as a delivery mechanism for my plan. When the response felt wrong, I added another aid instead of pausing long enough to identify the problem.

Back at home, I worked on transitions with a softer half-halt and fewer rehearsed cues. I rewarded the first balanced stride, not merely the canter that eventually appeared. We practised riding through mistakes so that a late departure did not automatically become a spiral of tension. Progress felt slower because I was paying attention to the whole horse rather than chasing a neat result.

Listening also applies outside the arena. I can hear a tight stride in the stable, notice a reluctance at the start of a session and recognise when my own body is interfering. Partnership is not the horse quietly compensating for a rider who has stopped communicating clearly.

My competition-day meals have followed the same principle. I keep them familiar: bananas, muesli bars, electrolytes and enough food to avoid arriving ravenous. Those ingredients come from a local Woolworths or Coles run, with extra supplies packed the night before. Familiar fuel gives me one less thing to solve at six in the morning.

What I carry to the next arena

The test sheet is still in my folder, marked in several colours. So is the version with my hurried notes from the warm-up, including one that simply says, “soften”. It is a more useful reminder than a beautifully written training plan because it records what actually happened on the day.

I also carry a few practical habits now. I check the test against the current rulebook, confirm the arena letter before entering and let the horse walk for a moment at the start. I keep the reins light, breathe before the transitions and remember that a pause is often faster than a frantic correction.

Most importantly, I no longer treat embarrassment as evidence that I am unsuitable for the discipline. It marks the exact place where preparation and partnership broke down. That information can guide the next ride, the next competition and the next time a familiar plan needs to give way to the horse in front of me.

That Camden test is still vivid, but its meaning has changed. The judge’s notes remain, as do the sweat, the tight fingers and the audible “canter, please”. What changed was my understanding of the moment and what I chose to do with it.

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