My friend Abby just did something remarkable—she wrote a play. Now, Abby is razor-sharp and talented, but she’s never even written a piece of fiction, much less a play. Nevertheless, her mentor asked her to collaborate on a dramatic piece, and she said yes. If anyone were to ask me to do that, my first reaction would be to laugh. Then I would explain that I have no creative talent, I don’t do fiction. . . . I’m just not good at that sort of thing.
How many times have I let the fact that I’m not good at something stop me from doing it? Early on, I focused on the things I did well and made it a habit to avoid everything else. I succeeded academically and was fed a steady dose of praise. I learned to crave it.
I was an approval junkie. Doing poorly was unimaginable—even average felt not good enough. So I stayed in safe territory, avoiding anything that might expose me as clumsy, uncertain or incompetent. That meant singing, poetry, painting, baking, calculus, needlecrafts, power tools and any sport involving objects moving through the air were all out.
On my 45th birthday, though, I decided I had kept myself locked in safety long enough. My need for approval had become paralyzing. What I really needed was to be clueless—to risk doing something new, with no expectation that I would be any good at it.
My first thought was to try fencing (the idea of declaring “En garde!” was enticing), but in the end I chose horseback riding. My daughter, Alex (Class of ’15), is an accomplished rider and a member of Stanford’s equestrian team, so I had spent time around barns. But I had never really ridden.
The first challenge was purely physical. My middle-aged body wasn’t eager to embrace new exertions. I couldn’t believe how much I hurt. Even more daunting was the mental hurdle. It’s disorienting to start at the bottom, especially when you’ve spent your life avoiding it. I found myself asking my instructor again and again what to do. “Put on the bridle? How, exactly?”
Once I was in the saddle, it felt like learning to drive all over again, but with a steering system that had a mind of its own. Even coaxing the horse to walk in a straight line was a big accomplishment. We achieved it only after days of my practicing coordinating legs, hands and head. Then there was learning to post on the diagonal, which requires figuring out—without looking—which of the horse’s legs is moving forward at any given moment and synchronizing a slight lift of your body out of the saddle. I still get it wrong sometimes.
Now, four years into what has become a passion, I start every ride with a list of things I want to improve on that day. For once, I am not trying to achieve anything. I ride for the love of it. I ride because it’s a pleasure to be a rookie learning from a thoughtful professional. I ride as part of a community of kindhearted equestrians who support and cheer for beginners. I ride because even if I’m not very good at it, it’s very good for me.
