With Cadence

Here, a rider from Region 8 tells us about her journey to Fourth Level with her heart horse, Cadence, a mare aptly (but unintentionally) named for her role as dance partner.

By Kasey Feola, with photos by Susan J. Stickle Photography

I gave birth to my daughter, Eliza, in 2023. But I first became a mother in 2007, at the tender age of nineteen. I had outgrown and sold my first horse when my instructor, Angie, offered a bold idea: “You’re a good rider who loves to compete. If you don’t get another horse now, you may not get the time or the chance for a very long time. You can’t afford the caliber of horse you need—so why not grow one?”

So, I signed a contract for an in-utero Sir Sinclair foal on the shoulder of my leased horse, right after one of my final lessons before I left for college. The plan: the foal would arrive next spring and begin training once I graduated. In the meantime, I’d work as a student and catch rides where I could.

Honestly, it could’ve been a true Ariel-and-Ursula moment (“you poor unfortunate soul!”). I’d done no research, never trained a young horse, and I hadn’t ridden above First Level. I didn’t have a real plan… just the idea of one.

I was so blissfully unaware that I chose her name without realizing its significance in dressage. As a choir nerd flipping through sheet music months before her due date, I saw the instructions to sing “with cadence” and thought, That’s her name: Cadence. I’ll call her Cady. I never considered that the foal might be a colt. I didn’t pick a backup name (more than a decade later, I did the same with my human child, which I’d argue proves a mother’s intuition is undefeated).

Cadence arrived on her due date: May 15, 2007, at 1 AM. I got the midnight call and only needed the words “baby time!” to leap from bed and careen into the night.

It was not the Hollywood moment one might expect. When I touched her damp nose, she wrinkled it in distaste, pinned her ears, and jerked her head away (or tried to). Angie looked at me and said, “Oh, this one has opinions.” Driving home, I reached for the radio. After momentous occasions, I always seek music – not just for comfort, but to anchor the moment. That night, through my busted speakers, a band crooned: You have stolen my heart.

We grew up together over the next seventeen years. I made significant life choices based on our partnership. I used student loans to cover her expenses, juggled multiple jobs while in school, and chose a career that could support her. When I moved to Massachusetts, I boarded her in Maine because I couldn’t afford a barn near Boston. For years, I commuted north to ride after work and on weekends. I even spent two years post-college sleeping on a futon in my aunt’s attic. I could only afford Cady’s care, my student loans, or my own apartment – but not all three simultaneously.

Our progress was slow, shaped by limited resources and my lack of experience. We competed sporadically, with mixed results, but I never considered selling Cady. Not once. No matter how tired or broke I was, my heart insisted the best was still to come.

As I entered the arena at the 2024 Great American/USDF Region 8 Dressage Championships to be announced as the fourth-place finisher in the Fourth Level Adult Amateur Championship class, a crystal-clear image of newborn Cadence, lying small, damp, and feisty in the straw, flashed through my mind. Seventeen years of fierce love for this brilliant, generous soul hit me in waves alongside the quiet grief that this chapter of our lives may move on without us.

As we walked to the award ceremony, the autumn sun lit the silver strands in Cadence’s braided black mane. She’d been collecting them for years, but I hadn’t noticed how many until they quite literally stared me in the face. Had only three years passed since making a similar walk to the Alltech Arena in Kentucky at US Dressage Finals presented by Adequan® when those same braids were completely black?

Between that walk in Kentucky and the sunset walk in Saugerties, I became a mother to a human daughter. Riding remained my outlet, but my time in the saddle has lessened not just out of necessity, but by choice. Eliza won’t be little for long, and I want to be there to see her grow.

Cadence taught me that the days are long, but the years are unbearably short. I often wish I could return to our days as a 25-year-old and a seven-year-old, but with the wisdom and resources I have now. I would worry less and savor more.

I can’t do that for Cadence, but because I’ve spent half my life with her, I know what I now need to do for Eliza. Inevitably, while I ride Cadence, I think of Eliza. And when I’m with Eliza, part of me stays with Cadence. Loving both fully means I’m never quite alone but rarely quite whole, either.

At seventeen, Cadence is still in excellent health thanks to the care of my incredible proverbial village. But at the 2024 Regionals, hallmarks of age made themselves known. She entered the warm-up without her signature mall walk. The gray in her mane and on her face stood out more than ever. I found myself coaxing her to eat more than just a little grain and hay. The totality of our circumstances – her age and my shifting priorities- came together not in a shout, but a whisper. The kind that feels like the first frost of the year: subtle but undeniable, quietly foretelling that change is on its way.

When I signed her contract, Cadence became a dream. When I entered her birthing stall, she became my ward. Last September, when we accepted our ribbon, I realized that somehow, long before we walked into the Region 8 awards ceremony, she had quietly become my guardian.

During our victory lap, I marveled at the gifts she’d given me: the affirmation that we could hold our own against those with access to resources far beyond our own. The cost of precious money and even more precious time felt seen and acknowledged by judges we regard as experts in our sport.

Our long, winding road to Fourth Level may not have been traditional, but it was no less commendable. To me, those fourth-place ribbons were first-place achievements.

That weekend, she gave me everything. She was hot and tired, but when I asked, she gave all she had. More than anything, she gave me resolution. I’ve long carried the quiet insecurity that, in the hands of someone with more knowledge, time, or money, Cadence could have been competitive on a bigger stage. My belief in her talent and heart is endless, but at this Region 8 Championship, she offered me something else: the permission to believe in my own.

This generous, exquisite being deemed me a worthy dance partner.

Cadence gave me the space to enter a new chapter in which she and I can ease off the intensity and compete for ourselves. What a relief it will be not to stress over qualifying scores or rankings. We’ll keep training, keep showing, but it will be different now. I believe I’ll return to Regionals or Finals one day, just likely not with her. From here on out, we’ll focus less on winning and more on living. And on the days I stay with Eliza instead of riding, I won’t carry as much guilt. I think Cady will be cruising in the travel lane by then, and I believe she’ll be glad to have given that to me, too.

When I sat down to write, I didn’t know where the words would take me. Would I catalog the trials of being an adult amateur? Compare the experience of mothering horses and humans? What could I possibly say that hasn’t been said before, especially about a horse who, on paper, might seem like just another regionally competitive partner?

Cadence is no Dalera. But she is my Dalera. Most equestrians don’t get a Dalera, but I think all of us have had a Cadence. The heart horse. The once-in-a-lifetime horse. They deserve to be celebrated. I wrote this for them. But most of all, I wrote this for her.

The next Regionals will come and go. Awards will be handed out, accolades bestowed. Social media will alight with celebration. When the time is right, I’ll return; maybe for myself, maybe for Eliza. But there’s no rush now.

Until then, I’ll be in my own private winner’s circle. Our celebrations will be quieter, but no less tender or meaningful. We may never take another victory gallop, but we’ve already won what matters most. No longer chasing the next milestone—we’re simply moving forward, together. One beat at a time.

I’ll miss what was, but I’m at peace with what’s next. In music, a cadence is a resolution, a musical punctuation, a return home. I’ve arrived where the sheet music always meant for me to land – with Cadence.