I was invited to give a motivational talk at the Western Cape Showjumping Awards this year. I wanted to ensure my message was truly inclusive—not just a celebration of victories but also an acknowledgment of those who tried, stumbled, and got back up again. Because even the award winners in that room had struggled at some point in their journey.

The topic I chose was Resilience.

I shared stories of people I knew who embodied this quality, highlighting their challenges and triumphs. I offered practical tips for navigating tough times and reminded everyone that resilience isn’t something you have or don’t have—it’s a muscle we all have to build, and it looks different for each of us.

And then, life decided to give me a real-time reminder of my own words.

On Friday night, I delivered my talk. On Saturday morning, I trotted sweetly down the centre line in my first eventing competition with Cheri. So far, so good. Our dressage test was calm, relaxed, and harmonious—I was thrilled.

Then came the showjumping. Everything was going well… until it wasn’t.

A miscommunication between Cheri and me on the approach to the second-last fence sent me flying over it alone—taking the pole down with me! Cheri looked a little embarrassed that I’d parted ways with her, but thankfully, neither of us was hurt.

Of course, we were eliminated. But resilience is about what happens next.

I sought permission from the Technical Delegate to continue and was allowed to ride in the cross-country phase on Sunday. With nothing to lose, we set out—and cantered home clear.

This is my own story of resilience in riding. Of rebuilding a partnership with a new horse after losing my heart partner of ten years. Of rediscovering my footing after so much in my life had changed.

Today marks six months since Jazz has been gone. I still miss her every day. Her picture in my bedroom greets me every morning, and I find comfort in talking to her, sharing our stories. She and Cheri were stablemates and friends, and I feel their connection deeply when I ride.

This weekend was another first—the first eventing show without Jazz. As I tacked up for my final dressage run-through on Friday, a little butterfly flitted around me, the first I’d seen in a while. It felt like a whisper from Jazz, reminding me she was still with me.

On Sunday, after our clear cross-country round, as I hosed Cheri down, another butterfly danced in the sunlight around us. And in that moment, I swear I heard it say:

“I’m proud of you both.”

One step. One moment. One fall. One getting back up again. Piece by piece, I am staying in the arena of life—and riding.

This is my resilience. Its messy. There are tears. But also butterflies.