Purposeful Waiting: Turning Seasons of “Waiting” into Preparation

How often do we find ourselves in the in-between?

Waiting for the next show. Waiting for the next level. Waiting to master a new skill. Waiting for the next ride, the next breakthrough, the next version of ourselves as riders. Waiting for an injury to heal. Waiting for the moment when everything finally “clicks” and life feels like it is moving forward again.

It can start to feel like life is made up of pauses between the important moments.

But what if it isn’t a pause at all?

What if what we call waiting is actually preparation?

What if this season—right here, exactly as it is—is not a delay, but a deep unfolding of readiness?

Dressage, at its core, is nothing but preparation.

Every moment in the arena is about preparing the horse physically and mentally to perform movements with ease, balance, and flow—without tension, without force, without visible effort. The beauty we eventually see in the upper levels is never sudden. It is built quietly, through thousands of small, intentional pieces that come long before the “big” movement ever appears.

My own goal has always been to develop willing, happy athletes—horses who are not just trained, but engaged. Horses who are excited to work together, learn together, and eventually perform together.

For a long time, though, I felt like we were stuck in the basics.

Always building. Always repeating. Always waiting for the moment we would finally “move on” to the exciting work—the upper-level movements, the fancy expressions of everything we had been preparing for.

I remember thinking, one day we’ll get there.

And I would long for that day as if it existed somewhere far ahead, separate from everything we were doing in the present.

As if, at some point, I would suddenly become a better rider. A more capable trainer. And we would no longer be in preparation—we would finally arrive.

But what I have come to understand is this:

There is no arriving.

There is only preparation, unfolding in different forms.

Lately, life has made that even more clear.

Right now, I am not riding. Sunshine and Hezekiah are still on the mainland. Izzie is 323 days pregnant, and Athena has been on maternity leave for quite some time—first because of my shoulder injury, and then because of her pregnancy.

It has felt like a long stretch of waiting.

Waiting for my horses to be here. Waiting for healing. Waiting for foaling. Waiting for the next “normal” rhythm to return.

But underneath all of that, something else has been happening.

Preparation.

I’ve been rebuilding my health from the inside out—rethinking how I eat, noticing how my body responds to different foods, different kinds of movement, different rhythms of rest. I’ve started shaping my lifestyle around what actually supports me, not just what fits into a busy schedule.

I’ve created a way of eating that feels sustainable. A way of training that is not only helping my shoulder heal, but also rebuilding strength and overall fitness. A quieter, more intentional kind of discipline that is not separate from riding—but foundational to it.

And in the arena work with Izzie, everything has shifted into preparation as well.

During her pregnancy, our rides have become softer, more thoughtful. We focus on transitions—walk to trot, trot to halt—simple movements, but never simple in execution. They ask for balance, timing, connection, and clarity of aid.

What I have come to realize is that the quality of preparation is the same, no matter the movement.

The aids don’t change just because the transition is “easier.” The engagement, the collection, the energy—they are all still being built, layer by layer.

So when I eventually ask for something like a canter transition, I am not starting from scratch. I am simply revealing what has already been prepared through the quieter work.

What once felt like limitation—I can’t work on walk-to-canter transitions while she is pregnant—has become something else entirely.

A gift of timing.

A chance to refine the foundation so deeply that the next step is not forced, but supported.

A proving ground for everything that comes later.

Every season carries its own challenges. Its own frustrations. Its own moments where things do not unfold the way we planned.

But when we begin to see those moments as preparation instead of delay, something shifts.

The work becomes lighter. More meaningful. More connected to what is actually being built beneath the surface.

And slowly, we stop waiting for life to begin.

We realize it already has.