Why I Write Letters to Myself Before Big Events
Before a big event, I am usually surrounded by lists. There are entries to check, tack to clean, clothes to pack, feed to organize, and a horse who has his own opinions about every carefully arranged plan. Eventing creates plenty of practical jobs, but the mental preparation can be harder to see. I may look calm while quietly rehearsing every possible mistake.
That is why I write a letter to myself before an important competition. It is not a polished training journal entry or a prediction about how the weekend will go. It is a pause between preparation and performance, a place where I can speak honestly to the rider who will walk into dressage, show jumping, or cross-country carrying all the hope and nerves that come with caring deeply.
The letter gives me something steady to return to when the day becomes noisy. It reminds me that the horse beside me is not a score, a time, or a collection of faults. He is my partner, and I am there to ride the horse in front of me rather than the frightening version of the event I have invented in my head.
The Page Before the Pressure
Writing by hand slows everything down. My thoughts cannot race ahead as quickly when I have to form each sentence on paper. That simple physical act matters before a horse trial, because anxiety tends to turn the future into a series of urgent, disconnected images: missing a movement, forgetting a course, having a fence down, losing confidence at a question on cross-country.
The letter interrupts that spiral. I can name what I am feeling without letting the feeling become a command. “I am nervous” is different from “I am not ready.” “I am worried about the water” is different from “I will never get through the water.” Once those thoughts are written down, they become information rather than invisible authority.
I also use the letter to mark the work that has already happened. There were schooling sessions, quiet hacks, difficult transitions, course walks, lessons, and ordinary days when I chose patience over frustration. A competition does not erase those hours. Writing reminds me that I am arriving with a history, not starting from nothing at the lorry park.
What I Put on Paper
My letters are usually a mixture of practical reminders and emotional honesty. I write about what I want to feel in the saddle, how I want to warm up, and what matters most if the plan changes. I may mention a particular exercise from training, a useful phrase from my instructor, or the feeling I want to create before entering the arena.
I also write directly to myself. Sometimes the tone is gentle: trust your preparation, breathe, and let the horse have a conversation with you. Sometimes it is firmer: stop trying to ride three fences ahead, keep your leg on, and do not turn one awkward moment into a story about the entire day. The letter is allowed to sound like the version of me who knows me best.
The most important sentences are rarely about scores. They are reminders such as:
- Ride the rhythm you practiced.
- Look up and keep making decisions.
- Give the horse time to understand.
- A mistake is an event, not an identity.
- Thank him for trying.
That last point matters especially in eventing. Dressage can tempt me into chasing marks, show jumping can make me focus on rails, and cross-country can fill my mind with combinations and distances. The letter brings my attention back to the partnership underneath all three phases.
A Record of the Whole Rider
Big events often highlight the narrowest version of a person. We talk about the dressage percentage, the jumping faults, the time, the placing, or whether a qualification was achieved. Those details have their place, but they cannot describe the whole experience. A letter allows me to include the parts that do not appear on a score sheet.
I might write about how my horse loaded more quietly than usual, how my family helped when I was tired, or how another rider offered a kind word while I was walking a course. I might record the moment I felt fear and kept going, even if the result was untidy. These details become increasingly valuable because they show the actual shape of a life with horses: shared effort, ordinary care, frustration, laughter, and small breakthroughs.
The letter also gives me permission to acknowledge changes in myself. Competition has made me more observant, but it has also exposed impatience and perfectionism. I have learned that confidence does not always arrive before action. Sometimes it appears after I do the next sensible thing while still feeling uncertain.
That is a useful distinction. I do not need to become fearless before a big event. I need to become familiar with my own nerves. The more accurately I understand them, the less likely I am to mistake adrenaline for danger or seriousness for failure.
Turning Nerves Into Information
I do not write the letter to convince myself that everything will be perfect. That would feel false, and horses have a way of exposing false confidence quickly. Instead, I write about what I can control. I can prepare the equipment, study the course, arrive with enough time, ride a thoughtful warm-up, and pay attention to my horse’s responses.
A competition schedule can help make that preparation concrete, especially when several phases and timings need to fit together. I use my event calendar to see the shape of the season, then let the letter focus on the particular event in front of me. A broad plan tells me where I am going; the letter helps me decide how I want to arrive there.
Nerves often contain useful clues. If I am worried about forgetting the dressage test, I can practice the transitions and visualize the pattern. If I am uneasy about a cross-country combination, I can walk it carefully and decide where my eyes, line, and pace need to be. If I am dreading show jumping after a long day, I can plan how to conserve energy rather than pretending tiredness will not matter.
This is one reason the letters have become part of my competition preparation. They turn vague anxiety into a small number of practical decisions. The goal is not to eliminate every uncomfortable thought. The goal is to make sure those thoughts have somewhere to go besides the saddle.
When Plans Meet Real Horses
No letter survives contact with a real horse completely unchanged. Weather shifts, arenas alter, ground conditions vary, and horses wake up with their own ideas. A plan that looked sensible at home may need to be adjusted before the first phase begins. Writing has taught me to prepare seriously without becoming rigid.
I often include a sentence giving myself permission to adapt. That may sound simple, but it counters the stubborn belief that changing the plan means the preparation has failed. If my horse needs a longer walk, I can provide it. If he feels tense, I can make the warm-up quieter. If a distance on cross-country rides differently from how I imagined, I can respond to the stride I actually have.
The letter helps me remember that good riding is responsive. It is not a performance of executing instructions regardless of what the horse is telling me. The partnership depends on attention, timing, and a willingness to keep communicating when the ideal picture disappears.
The table below shows how I tend to use different kinds of notes across an event weekend:
| Stage | What I write about | What it helps me do |
|---|---|---|
| The evening before | Preparation, nerves, priorities | Settle my mind and sleep with a clear plan |
| Before dressage | Rhythm, breathing, connection | Ride the warm-up instead of chasing a mark |
| Before show jumping | Pace, focus, recovery | Make one decision at a time |
| Before cross-country | Partnership, bravery, questions | Stay present and ride the terrain |
| After the final phase | Gratitude, lessons, details | Remember the whole experience accurately |
A flexible plan is more useful than a perfect one. The horse does not know what I wrote the night before, and that is exactly why the letter cannot become another demand. It is a guide, not a rulebook.
Writing Past the Result
The letter I write after an event is often more revealing than the one I wrote before it. Once the adrenaline fades, I can look at the weekend with more balance. I may still be disappointed by a mistake, but I am less likely to let one moment take over the entire account.
I record what worked, what needs attention, and what surprised me. Sometimes the biggest lesson is technical: I need a clearer half-halt, a more organized warm-up, or greater confidence in my line. Sometimes it is emotional: I spent too much time comparing myself with other riders, or I allowed an early error to affect the next phase.
I also write down what my horse gave me. Perhaps he tried hard in difficult conditions, stayed honest when I became tense, or recovered quickly after an uncertain moment. Those observations matter because the partnership is built from thousands of small exchanges, many of which happen far away from prize-giving.
Reading old letters later can be uncomfortable, but it is useful. I see fears that did not come true and worries that eventually became manageable. I also see recurring patterns: the situations that make me rush, the circumstances in which I ride best, and the kind of support that helps me regain perspective. Over time, the letters become a map of my competition mind.
A Small Practice With Lasting Value
The habit does not require expensive stationery or a long stretch of quiet. A notebook, a pen, and ten honest minutes are enough. I usually write when the practical jobs are nearly finished, before fatigue makes every concern seem bigger. The writing is private, which makes it easier to be truthful.
I do not try to produce something profound. A useful letter can be messy, repetitive, and full of crossed-out sentences. Its purpose is to connect the rider I am today with the rider who will need support tomorrow. That connection is especially important when confidence feels dependent on an outcome.
A pre-event letter also changes the way I define success. I still care about performance, and I still want to improve. But I can hold those ambitions alongside other measures: staying kind under pressure, listening to my horse, recovering after a mistake, and finishing with a clearer understanding of what we need next.
Those are the things I want to carry from one event to another. Results are part of the story, but they are not the only evidence that progress is happening. Sometimes progress looks like riding forward after a nervous moment. Sometimes it looks like choosing a quieter approach. Sometimes it looks like putting the pen down and trusting the work.
Write a few lines to the version of yourself who will meet the start box, the dressage arena, or the show-jumping gate. Tell that rider what is true, what matters, and what can wait. Then take the letter with you—not as a promise of a perfect day, but as a steady reminder that you and your horse have already begun.