Every body is an equestrian body, which is why August is focusing on size inclusivity on YourDressage. As we share the stories, struggles, and triumphs of plus-size equestrians from across the country, our friends at Horse Dazzle and Kerrits Equestrian Apparel have graciously partnered with us to sponsor a #DressageForEveryBody2026 giveaway for three lucky readers!
By Beth Darby
People often say horses find us when we need them most. Looking back, I think Annie found me.
After COVID, I decided it was finally time to get back into horses. I had grown up riding through 4-H, Pony Club, and the Intercollegiate Horse Shows Association (IHSA), but then life came along. College, careers, marriage, and responsibilities slowly replaced horses. Before I knew it, almost thirty years had passed since I had really ridden.
Like so many adults returning to horses, I wasn’t looking for perfection; I was looking for the feeling I remembered as a kid.
Then I found Annie.
She was an eight-year-old off-the-track Thoroughbred (OTTB) mare, whom I found on Facebook. In my mind, she was still young, athletic, and full of potential. I’d owned horses before, so I thought, What could possibly go wrong?
As it turns out…quite a bit. But, I’d choose her all over again.
Annie stepped off the trailer at her new home outside Austin in the middle of a thunderstorm. While everything around her was loud, wet, and unfamiliar, she quietly took it all in. That was Annie. She had spirit, but never in a mean way. She was kind, tolerant, and always willing to try.
About ten months after I bought her, we took X-rays while investigating another issue. That’s when we discovered she had severe Kissing Spines. To be honest, Kissing Spines wasn’t even something I’d heard of.
Back when I rode in Pony Club, 4-H, and IHSA, it simply wasn’t something people talked about. Suddenly I found myself learning about surgeries, rehabilitation protocols, recovery timelines, and treatment options that were completely foreign to me.
Annie underwent surgery to remove bone in eight different spinal locations. We thought the surgery would be the hard part, but recovery proved to be much longer than expected. Complications from infections extended her rehabilitation, and what we thought would be a few months turned into nearly eight months before I could even think about getting back in the saddle.
By the time Annie was cleared to be ridden again, I had almost as much fear as she did.
Our first ride after rehab was emotional. Annie wasn’t the same horse. She had been standing around for months and had forgotten what it meant to have a job. Honestly, I wasn’t the same rider either.
On one of those early rides, she bucked. I stayed on, but something inside me broke. A few rides later, she bucked again. By then I was over it…and so was my back.
No one needs to see a middle-aged woman lying in the arena wondering why she thought getting back into horses after almost thirty years was a good idea. Somehow, I managed to stay on, but getting out of bed the next morning was a completely different experience.
Instead of recognizing that Annie was still rebuilding after eight months off and major surgery, I convinced myself it was my fault.
More specifically…I convinced myself it was because of my size.
I’ve always been a bigger rider. I work hard to stay healthy. I ride, I work out with Peloton, and I do everything I can to be the best partner for my horses. But my size is my size.
When one of the smaller trainers got on Annie, she went beautifully. In my mind, that proved it. I wasn’t good enough for my own horse. I felt defeated.
As the negative thought spiral continued, I honestly believed that Annie deserved someone smaller, someone better, someone who could give her what I couldn’t. I seriously considered selling her because I loved her enough to think she deserved more than me.
Thankfully, someone believed in us before I believed in myself.
My trainer, Sydney at Idylwood Stables, gently—but persistently—encouraged me not to give up. She encouraged Annie and me to strip everything back to the basics and simply start over.
Then, just as we committed to that fresh start, life changed forever. My husband, Clay, was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer.
Overnight, life was consumed by hospital rooms, surgeries, rehabilitation, radiation treatments, medications, insurance paperwork, and learning how to become a caregiver. Riding suddenly seemed insignificant compared to everything else we were facing.
But horses have a way of giving us exactly what we need.
While Annie and I were rebuilding, another horse quietly walked into my life. His name was SloMo.
SloMo was a “been there, done that” Quarter Horse of unknown age who had clearly spent much of his life as a ranch horse. He wasn’t fancy. He didn’t know dressage, and he certainly wasn’t bred for it.
But he was exactly what I needed. He was safe, he was steady, and true to his name…He was slow.
While Annie was healing, SloMo became my confidence horse. He reminded me that riding could simply be fun again. Not every ride had to be perfect. Sometimes success was simply climbing into the saddle.
That summer, while Clay spent weeks in the hospital, SloMo became my escape.
Many mornings I would load him into the trailer before sunrise and head to local schooling shows at Scissortail Hill in Austin. We’d ride our test, spend a few hours with friends, and then I’d drive straight back to the hospital so I wouldn’t miss the doctors’ afternoon rounds.
Those few hours weren’t about ribbons. They were about breathing.
For just a little while, I wasn’t thinking about MRI results, medications, or treatment plans. I was simply another amateur rider trying to remember where A, C, and X were.
Dressage was completely new to SloMo. He had absolutely no idea what a 20-meter circle was supposed to look like. A two-minute Introductory Level test somehow became a four-minute adventure. Thank goodness most of those schooling shows used the small dressage arena because every extra stride gave him another opportunity to admire the scenery.
But he always tried.
At the end of that season, my little ranch horse earned High Point Intro B at one of our local schooling shows.
Not bad for a horse who probably never imagined he’d become a dressage horse.
More importantly, he gave me something no ribbon ever could: he gave me my confidence back.
SloMo wasn’t the only one helping me rebuild.
Every Wednesday I ride with an incredible group of adult amateur women at Idylwood Stables. We all come from different backgrounds, different careers, different ages, and different body types, and we don’t fit one picture of what a dressage rider is “supposed” to look like. That’s exactly what makes our group so special.
We call ourselves the Pink Canter Club.
Every Wednesday we ride together, encourage one another, laugh through the mistakes, celebrate every success, and usually finish with what we affectionately call Wine Wednesday.
These women have become so much more than barn friends. They’ve become my biggest cheerleaders, my sounding board, and my emotional support “show moms.”
One of my favorite memories is showing SloMo in a pile-of-poles class. I was the only adult competing against a group of kids, but my Pink Canter Club friends stood ringside cheering just as loudly for me as if I were riding at the Olympics. They never made me feel silly. They simply celebrated that I showed up.
Much of our journey has taken place at Scissortail Hill, where the Concordia Dressage and Idylwood families have supported us every step of the way. They celebrated every ribbon, every personal best, every setback and every comeback. They reminded me that while dressage may be an individual sport inside the arena, no one succeeds alone.
As my confidence returned, Annie and I slowly found each other again. Ride by ride, lesson by lesson. One canter stride at a time.
I’ve been incredibly fortunate to train with Martin from Concordia Dressage, whose guidance has helped us continue growing as a partnership.
Earlier this summer, Annie and I entered our first Central Texas Dressage Society-recognized show. Leaving the comfort of our local schooling shows was intimidating, but Annie rose to the occasion. We earned scores in the 70s at Intro level, and for the first time I truly believed we might have something special.
Not long after that, we entered our first USEF-licensed/USDF-recognized show, right here in the Austin area.
We braided Annie, polished my boots, put on our show clothes, and walked into an arena that once would have terrified me. We earned a score in the upper 60s in Intro B.
For many riders, that may seem like an ordinary score. For me, it was everything.
It was proof that the surgery, the rehabilitation, the tears, the self-doubt, the early mornings, and every horse and every person who carried me through this journey had all been worth it.
That was the moment I decided…Let’s go for it.
Our next stop is Katy, where we’re hoping to earn the final score we need to qualify for the Southwest Dressage Championships in October.
After that, Annie and I will focus on that left lead canter and moving up to Training Level in 2027.
As every horse person knows, though…One horse is never enough.
A few months ago, another OTTB entered my life: Master Dunker.
Like Annie, Dunker has his own story to tell. After his racing career, he spent years in the hunter/jumper world before finding his way to me. This big, stocky Thoroughbred has become another confidence builder. While Annie and I continue our journey toward Training Level, Dunker is just beginning his own dressage adventure. We’ll start with the basics at Intro, proving once again that it’s never too late—for horse or rider—to discover something new.
Looking back, I realize every horse has entered my life exactly when I needed them.
Annie taught me resilience.
SloMo gave me confidence when I had lost it.
Dunker reminds me that every new chapter begins with the basics.
People often ask how I balance riding with multiple jobs while helping care for Clay. The truth is…Riding isn’t another thing on my schedule.
It’s what gives me the strength to handle everything else. For one hour, I get to think about geometry, transitions, and my partnership with Annie instead of doctor’s appointments and medical paperwork. That hour reminds me who I am.
Dressage For Every Body means so much to me because there was a time when I truly believed my body was the reason Annie struggled. I compared myself to riders who were thinner than I was. I convinced myself I didn’t fit the image of what a dressage rider was supposed to look like.
Looking back, I realize Annie was never judging my body. She needed patience and time, and she needed confidence.
And so did I.
Today, instead of watching me from a hospital bed, Clay is standing at the rail cheering Annie and me on. That simple change means more than any ribbon I’ve ever earned.
I’m still #CanteringForClay.
And Annie and I are still writing our story, one canter stride at a time.
Because our story isn’t just about Kissing Spines, or cancer, or ribbons.
It’s about second chances. It’s about the horses who carried me through different seasons of life. It’s about the trainers, friends, and barn family who refused to let me quit.
And it’s about realizing I don’t need the “perfect” dressage body. I have my dressage body. The one that came back to horses after thirty years. The one that cared for my husband through brain cancer. The one that doubted itself, found confidence again, and still climbs into the saddle with hope.
I wouldn’t change a thing.
Because there is a place in dressage for every rider, every horse, every journey…and everybody.
