I remember when I was learning how to ride. I have always loved horses and just felt a connection to them since I was a little girl. When I was around 6 my dad purchased a pretty steel-grey mare with the hopes that she would be a good horse for him and hopefully me. She was young and without a lot of training and as happens when you’re learning to ride she got away from me and I tumbled out of the back of the saddle landing flat on my back knocking every bit of wind out of my body. My worst fear happened. I was now scared of the thing I wanted to do more than anything I had ever wanted in my six years of life. Daddy traded her for a palomino paint welch pony mare hoping that a smaller horse would help me get over my fears. She was a big, fast, and strong pony - almost a small horse instead of a true pony. I was a tall little girl so she was a good fit for me, other than the fact I was scared to death to fall off again. There was a night at the Houston, MS Coliseum (I think they call it the Chickasaw County Agri-Center but in my heart, it will always be the Coliseum) Daddy and I came to a head regarding the pony. He was tired of leading me around and tired of seeing me clutched onto the saddle horn in fear the entire time I was on the pony. Daddy told me on no uncertain terms that either I learned to ride the pony by myself, or she was going to be sold. Harsh words for a little girl but I was seven, and it was time. Daddy unclipped the leadline and off I went at a slow walk around the perimeter of the arena by myself. My shoulders were hunched around my ears, I had a death grip on the reins and saddle horn, and I was waiting for her to run off with me again. Other kids my age were running their ponies, whooping and hollering like little Pawnee warriors, and there I was terrified of a 50 ¼ inch pony. Little by little I loosened up. Little by little I relaxed and even asked for a short trot. I’ve never seen my Daddy grin so big. Progress was made that day. Little by little I made progress toward my dream of running barrels in the Mosley Rodeo where I had seen barrel racing for the first time. Progress was learning about lead changes, dropping shoulders, keeping one calm and off the muscle, shifting weight, riding off my seat and not my hands, and all the hundreds of little things I learned as I progressed as a rider. Progress many times is very small and hard to measure. Progress in barrel racing is measured in thousandths, hundreds, and tenths of seconds. Progress is learning how to trust a 1000 pounds of horse and never doubt he’ll turn that first barrel, or running for home knowing he’s gonna stop when you ask. Progress is simple and yet never truly simple. I never did get to run at the Mosley Rodeo, but I ran at the Coliseum so many other times at so many other rodeos, horse shows, and barrel races. I grew up in that arena. I made lifelong friends in that arena. I learned who I was in that arena. I learned about progress and how very slow and difficult it can be. Sometimes progress is so slow we ourselves can’t see it, but it’s there. I want to have that faith again as I go forward. The horse above was my birthday present last year, a three-year-old registered Quarter Horse and my new barrel horse prospect. I haven’t trained a young horse since I was in college and that was 15 years ago. At nearly 40 I probably don’t have any business doing what I’m about to do, but here I go anyway. Nothing will humble you more than starting completely from scratch. Starting from square one is a game with yourself where you try to keep in mind and celebrate your small accomplishments (though this little guy has some great training on him already so I’m somewhat ahead of the game from where I was with my last young horse haha!) Progress is oftentimes not a leap but small steady steps ahead.