When Success Becomes the Problem: Letting Go and Building Back Differently

For a long time, I believed I knew exactly what success with horses was supposed to look like.

There was a destination, and everything I did was measured against whether or not I was getting closer to it. Riding at the highest levels wasn't simply one possible path—it had become the path. And when we become that attached to a particular outcome, it's surprisingly easy to stop seeing everything else that's happening around us.

The horses we're fortunate enough to ride. The skills we're developing. The relationships we're building. The experiences that don't look like progress on paper but are quietly shaping us into better horsepeople.

Sometimes we become so focused on where we're trying to go that we stop appreciating where we actually are.

When One Path Becomes the Only Path

“I was so desperate to be part of some imagined elite club…that I wasn’t open to other possibilities or directions. I thought that riding at the Olympic level was the only end game that meant anything…Instead of honing the skills I had and feeling grateful for the horses I could ride, I spent all my time thinking about the things I didn’t have.” Chapter 13, Finding Purpose

For years, I measured myself against one very specific definition of success.

The problem wasn't having an ambitious goal. Goals can give us direction and ask us to grow in ways we otherwise might not.

The problem was what happened when that goal became the only outcome I believed had value.

Instead of appreciating the horses I had, I focused on the horses I didn't have. Instead of recognizing how much I was learning, I noticed how far I still had to go. Instead of allowing my path to evolve, I became increasingly attached to what I thought it was supposed to look like.

That mindset inevitably followed me into the barn.

Horses are incredibly good at showing us what we're carrying. When I brought frustration, dissatisfaction, and constant striving into my work with them, it affected the relationship. Training became less about what the horse and I were building together and more about whether we were meeting an expectation.

And when the expectation becomes more important than the process, it's easy to lose sight of the horse standing in front of you.

When Achievement Becomes Identity

The harder part was recognizing that this wasn't only about my riding goals.

My sense of worth had become tied to them.

A good result could make me feel successful. A bad one could make me question everything. Wins became evidence that I belonged, while losses felt like evidence that I didn't.

Eventually, that way of living became impossible to ignore.

“At that moment I also realized I had been doing this for a very, very long time, and I saw how unbelievably unhealthy it was—how unsustainable and how unsatisfying my life would be if I continued in this way. I knew, within a two-minute span of sudden and startling clarity, that I had to make some drastic changes if I ever wanted to enjoy my life and the horses in it. For the first time ever, I acknowledged that a person was more than the sum of wins minus losses.” Chapter 14, Finding Purpose

That realization changed something fundamental for me.

If our entire sense of success depends on results, there will never be enough of them.

There will always be another level. Another competition. Another rider doing more. Another horse we wish we had. Another achievement that briefly makes us feel as though we've arrived before the finish line moves again.

Eventually, I had to ask a much harder question: What if the life I was working so hard to build wasn't actually one I was enjoying?

Redefining What Counts

Changing that required more than deciding that winning didn't matter.

It meant reconsidering what I valued in the first place.

I began returning my attention to the things that had been overshadowed by outcome: foundation work, quiet rides, small improvements, good conversations with horses, and the satisfaction of solving a problem without needing anyone else to recognize it.

At first, that can feel like going backwards.

When you've spent years measuring progress by increasingly visible accomplishments, quieter forms of growth don't always feel significant.

But they are.

Gratitude became an important part of that shift—not as a way of convincing myself not to want more, but as a way of recognizing that wanting something in the future didn't require being dissatisfied with what I had in the present.

I could still have goals.

I could still be ambitious.

I could still want to become a better rider and trainer.

But those things didn't have to come at the expense of appreciating the horse I was riding today.

Building on Different Ground

Sometimes hitting bottom isn't a dramatic ending. Sometimes it's simply the moment when you can no longer pretend that the way you've been doing things is sustainable.

And that moment can become a foundation.

Starting again gave me the opportunity to build around different questions.

Not just: What did I accomplish?

But:

• What did I learn?

• Did I do right by my horse?

• Did I become a better horseperson through the process?

• Is the life I'm creating one I actually want to live?

Those questions leave room for many different definitions of success.

I see that now with my students, too. For one rider, success might mean moving up a level. For another, it might mean riding confidently again after fear took over. For someone else, it might be finally understanding their horse well enough to solve a problem that has frustrated them for years.

None of those goals needs to be diminished simply because someone else's looks bigger from the outside.

There is freedom in allowing success to be personal.

And there is even more freedom in recognizing that our definition of it is allowed to change.

The goals we once thought would define our lives may eventually lead us somewhere completely different. That doesn't necessarily mean we failed to reach the original destination. Sometimes it means we learned enough along the way to choose a different one.

Hitting bottom can feel like everything has fallen apart.

But sometimes what has actually fallen away is a definition of success that was never strong enough to hold us.

And once it's gone, we have the chance to build something better in its place.

What would change in your relationship with your horse—and with yourself—if success wasn't something you had to prove?