When my daughter’s riding instructor, Lisa, calls unexpectedly on a Tuesday morning, my heart sinks. Lisa typically communicates via text.
“Maya had a fall. She came off the horse,” she says, her tone serious. “Her arm… it’s broken.”
Inside, I feel like I’m unraveling. Just a week into summer vacation and our plans are already derailed. Money is tight, and my husband and I had hoped to give our 8-year-old a memorable summer experience. We had enrolled her in a week-long pony camp at the stables where she had been riding for months, thinking it would be a week filled with joyous pony adventures and friendships.
But we were mistaken.
As I navigate the winding roads toward the stable, I can’t help but replay our carefree conversation from just a couple of hours earlier. Maya and her friend Lily were giggling in the backseat, reveling in the excitement of spending the day with their beloved ponies. The windows were down, and they squealed with delight as the wind rushed through the car.
“Arms in,” I had cautioned, half-seriously. “You don’t want to break your arm before summer breaks out, right? No riding, no swimming!”
Did I really say that?
Pulling into the stable, I notice a cluster of girls gathered near the barn, who quickly direct me to the house across the driveway. There lies Maya, a towel-wrapped ice pack resting against her arm, while another camper’s mother keeps watch.
“My arm hurts,” she whispers when she sees me.
Later, when someone asks if she realized her arm was broken right away, she nods. “It looked like I had two elbows,” she explains with a brave little smile.
The next eight hours are a haze of pain, waiting, and disbelief. When a nurse mentions that they need to break one of the bones in her forearm to set it properly, I step outside, tears threatening to spill.
Maya has always loved stuffed animals, and as she’s grown, her affection has turned towards live animals. When she began riding, it filled me with both excitement and apprehension. Her first pony camp the summer before had been uneventful, and I had watched her lessons with mostly calm. Other parents seemed relaxed, engrossed in their phones while I anxiously observed. One mom shared how she had stopped riding after a horse threw her off. “They can sense fear,” she said, “Better to start young and fearless.”
Riding brings so many benefits: fresh air, exercise, responsibility, and focus. I envisioned Maya escaping the pressures of school, nurturing a connection with nature, and finding peace as she rode.
So naturally, I pushed any risk from my mind. I even ignored a news article about a tragic fall at an equestrian event that made my stomach drop. When a little girl fell during Maya’s first show and called for her mom, I turned away to suppress my rising anxiety. If I just didn’t think about it, surely it wouldn’t happen.
But injuries do occur. Just a week and a half after she won a ribbon at her first horse show, Maya fell during her second day at pony camp, breaking her forearm in two places.
Fortunately, she is resilient.
That summer, everyone asks about her purple cast (the first question being, “What happened?”). The second? “Will you ride again?” Thankfully, her doctor assures her that girls like Maya, who ride, often can’t wait to get back in the saddle. She responds with enthusiasm, saying she will ride again, which makes me ponder—should she?
The conventional wisdom suggests that she should face her fears and get back on the horse. As her mother, I feel the pressure to encourage her bravery. I’m usually the voice of caution, demanding she dress warmly, eat healthy, and get enough sleep. Now, I’m supposed to urge her to take another leap of faith, to risk her safety once more. Why should she ride again?
Eventually, the day for her next lesson arrives. Maya’s cast is gone, replaced by a flexible splint that she’ll need to wear on and off for the next six months. I wear sunglasses to hide my apprehension as I watch her canter again. She moves seamlessly, and I’m filled with joy as she starts to ride again, shaking off our challenging summer.
Afterward, we celebrate with pizza, but doubt creeps back. What if she falls again?
Then I receive an email from Maya’s teacher, who shares her own experiences with her daughter’s riding injuries. “Raising kittens last summer taught me that sheltering our children from danger can backfire,” she wrote. The lesson? We can’t shield our kids from pain; sometimes, our protective measures can be more dangerous. I save that email for when I need a reminder.
Interestingly, Maya decides to take a break from riding to join a new Girls on the Run group at school. I’m torn—relieved yet concerned. I email Lisa, who reassures me that it’s perfectly fine and that Maya can return when she feels ready.
I’ll keep that email, too.
Conclusion
In conclusion, the journey of parenting often involves navigating the delicate balance between protection and allowing our children to face challenges. While we wish to safeguard them from pain, sometimes those experiences are essential for their growth and resilience.
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