BY KATIE BOWERSOX
About 15 months ago, I wrote an article for the Plaid Horse Magazine discussing the rising cost of being an equestrian. After writing that article, I finally found a farm that accepted me and worked with what I could give. At 23, I was working on Sundays, doing turnout and cleaning stalls, in exchange for a few rides and a lesson when my trainer was available. Now, at 24, just over a year later, I have a new job where I make almost $20,000 more than before, and I’ve been priced out of riding altogether.
While losing my unicorn barn situation was entirely my personal choice, I thought taking a new job with such a big raise would make it all a wash, even though I’d be moving to a new city. I thought surely I would be able to afford a half lease or even a lesson program. Imagine my shock when I found out the standard lesson in my area was $125/ hour, or that board would range from $2,000-$3,500, not including lessons. Even by working all my overtime hours and picking up extra shifts, I wouldn’t be able to afford time in the tack.
I can’t help but look back and wonder, “Where did I go wrong?” Maybe moving to my dream city meant giving up on my dreams of riding. After all, I picked an expensive city, and I knew that when I moved here.
I initially had hope when I got to Miami; I had found a wonderful farm that needed an extra rider to get all of the horses ridden in a day. It seemed like the equestrian world still had a place for me. But then they moved further south, had more pasture space, and with that, more time to ride their own horses, and my rides dried up. I was back to square one again.
That cycle would continue. Take a trial lesson, talk about my options with the head trainer, realize they had nothing within my budget, and tell them to let me know if any new opportunities open up. I never heard from any of them again.
Maybe this is just how it is meant to end for me, with a horse-shaped hole in my chest that can’t be filled by anything else. While I spend my days reading book after book for my book club, I ignore all of the novels written by Natalie Keller Reinert that sit on my shelves, cruel reminders of the world I can’t afford to be a part of.
I do my best to scroll past the WEF photos on Instagram without feeling envious. I skip the TikToks of people training their horses at home. I keep reading The Plaid Horse, but now I take my time, as each article is a cruel reminder that I have opinions about a world I cannot afford to have a voice in.
Even now, as I sit here writing this article, I am taking breaks mid-sentence because the screen gets blurry through my tears as I face a harsh reality I have been ignoring: I cannot afford my only dream.
I think back to the first article I ever wrote, published in the February 2025 edition of The Plaid Horse. Not only was it the first time I had a voice, but it started a conversation with my peers that gave me hope that I could be heard. A conversation about how the price of our sport was astronomical and growing impossible to compete with. Getting that article published left me feeling hopeful. I had a voice. People were listening to me like I had something important to say.
Now, I have reached out to so many barns and been let down by my own bank account so many times that when a new opportunity pops up, I don’t even reach out in fear of getting my hopes up once again. I’m now afraid of even coming close to a horse. I feel like I’ve finally gotten the straw dust out of my system, and getting too close again will just remind me of everything I can’t have. I’ll be back to the beginning, grieving this part of me all over again.
That is what this feels like, grief. For most of my life, “horse girl” has been a part of my identity. In fact, I talked about it so much in college that I got the nickname “horse Katie” in order to differentiate myself from another Katie in my class. Horses are a part of who I am. Giving them up didn’t feel like an option. My own sister didn’t even believe me when I called to tell her I was quitting riding.
It felt more like a part of me had been cut away, surgically removed, and not offered back until I could pay the bills. Working in athletics, I have seen this happen to a lot of athletes when they retire. Losing something you have dedicated your entire life to is unexplainably painful.
Many college sports don’t even offer a professional league for you to continue with after graduation. Athletes know that their time with their sport has an expiration date.
But riding is different. This is a lifetime sport, and we proudly boast having the oldest Olympian on record. I have not aged out of this part of me. I sit back and watch other girls my age live my dream, knowing that I cannot afford it no matter what I do, and it makes it that much harder.
If there is one thing I have learned in the last 15 months since I wrote that first article, it’s that life can change in the blink of an eye. 15 months ago, I gave up my dream job in order to have the time to ride more. 15 months ago, I had hope that this world had a place for me.
Now, I spend my days keeping myself busy, hoping that something changes again. I’ll still keep my saddle, though it is now collecting dust in the trunk of my car, because I know there will come a day when I ride again. This world has a way of sucking you in and not letting you go.
Every horse girl like me knows that the horse-shaped hole you have cannot possibly be filled by anything else, and our hearts won’t beat properly without it.
Katie Bowersox is a certified athletic trainer with a passion for sports medicine and all things horses! Originally from Baltimore, MD, she currently resides in Miami, FL with her dog Wyatt.
