It was going to be a family trip: my non-horsey husband, toddler son, and me on a six-hour road trip to Lexington for the Defender Kentucky Three-Day Event. 

But when we started to lay out the details, both husband and son had previous commitments that would make the trip logistically difficult. My husband, perhaps detecting his out, asked if I’d want to go alone. 

Would I want to go alone?!

I hardly remembered what “alone” felt like. I haven’t experienced it in any significant quantity in the almost three years since my son was born. I don’t think I’ve even peed alone since Otto learned to walk: “Mama peeing? Otto help!” Then, cat-like, half the toilet paper roll would be unwound on the floor before I’d finished washing my hands or buckling my belt.  

Alone sounded glorious. 

I dug deep, mustering up a hint of disappointment as I told my husband that, yes, I was up for making the trip solo but certainly would miss having them along. 

I wonder if he believed any part of that lie. 

I adore my husband and son. But all week, I’d been envisioning little Otto ducking under the white ropes on the cross-country course to splash in a water obstacle, or throwing a tantrum in the middle of a silent show jumping round because he couldn’t dig in the “ree-na” like he does at home. I pictured chasing him through the trade show aisles, losing him in the crowds. And then I wondered how I’d sell dressage to my spouse: How many horse and rider pairs would I get to watch before he started Googling the distance to nearby bourbon distilleries? 

The tiny little “me” who has been lost for the last few years did a little cartwheel at the thought of 24 solo hours at “The Best Weekend All Year.” Why hello, I said to her. I wasn’t sure you were still in there! 

On Friday morning, I kissed my husband and son, and pointed my car towards bluegrass and horses and myself. 

My first and only visit to the Kentucky Three-Day was in 2008, and those memories blur. But the feeling—that electric atmosphere—came rushing back when I walked onto the Kentucky Horse Park grounds on Friday afternoon. 

I leaned along a fence, grateful for the lack of agenda, and took it all in. 

Grooms led sleek horses, some tacked, others draped in embroidered sheets, between rings and stables. Dressage underway, the stadium oscillated between silence and cheers. Spectators, many in breeches, carried shopping bags and backpacks and folding chairs. Dogs of all shapes and sizes and colors trotted along with their owners. Three pre-teens in colorful boot socks giggled nervously as they waited in a line for an idol’s autograph. A group of middle-aged women threw arms around each other and grinned for a photo. It wasn’t hard to imagine their earlier years as horse-crazy little girls themselves. 

Recently, one of my riding students, a sweet but quieter tween, told her mom how nervous she was to switch schools next year. She worried about making new friends. 

Her mom reminded her how she’d recently met a few new riders at a barn event, and they’d hit it off, even though the girls were older and went to different schools. 

“But horse girls are different,” the girl shrugged. She’s not wrong. 

In January, I wrote a little story for the Chronicle about Alan, the jumping mule, who will become a Breyer this summer. His owner, Whitney Barnard, and I have stayed in touch and I knew she worked at the horse park. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to see if she was around. 

She was. We met outside the trade fair building and spent an hour browsing the booths, fussing over glittery horse stencils and shiny purple coveralls and rhinestone-covered tall boots like middle-schoolers at a mall. 

“I’m going to the barn tonight,” Whitney said. “Want to come?”

Of course I did. 

At the barn, Alan gave me the side-eye as Whitney and I groomed his coat, chatting as if we’d known each other for decades rather than hours. Horse girls are different.

Whitney led me up and down the aisle of the broodmare barn where we swooned over half a dozen foals. A dark bay with knobby-knees and gray-whiskers, only a day old, skittered away from us to hide behind her mama.

Before I left, Whitney asked if I had time to see some baby miniature donkeys (is there any answer other than yes?), and we climbed over a fence and into a field with two little long-ears who nibbled my sleeves and flopped in my lap. 

That night felt like the barn-time of my youth, where the only agenda was to spend time with horses and the girls who love them. That night, I had zero responsibilities and zero worries: I didn’t need to rush home to my son, I wasn’t responsible for feeding or cleaning stalls, I wasn’t teaching a lesson or washing blankets or wondering if a horse’s scratches were clearing up or if that lesson pony looked just a little bit “off.” I could just be, and those hours filled what had been a very empty tank. 

Back at the horse park, I watched some of Friday night’s grand prix with childhood friends while passing around a skewer of chocolate covered strawberries. That night, not a single person shrieked, “Mommy, help, there’s a booger in my nose!” or, “My blankets fell off!” from down the hall in the middle of the night. I woke up on my own terms and laid in bed for an extra few minutes, just because I could. 

Saturday’s cross-country came with mixed feelings. In 2008, my one and only other trip to the Kentucky Three-Day Event, two horses died on course. Those images: a horse going down, the screens going up, and my horse-crazy little cousin’s worried face are etched into my memory. I wondered that day what more we needed to be doing for the animals who give their all for us. It wasn’t a total accident I hadn’t been back in over a decade. 

As I walked the course, the frangible devices on so many jumps brought tears to my eyes. 

When Will Coleman withdrew Chin Tonic HS before dressage in the Cosequin Lexington CCI4*-S because of a concern about the horse’s carpal sheath, he said it was an easy call to keep his horse safe: “It never is a hard decision to do right by your horse,” he said. He called the choice “obvious” and “responsible.” Choices like this, especially when made by this level of rider, set an example and raise the bar. 

Equestrians evolve. We learn and try to do better.  

I found a spot to watch the four-star cross-country on the fence just after the Le Chameau Park Question and set my bag at my feet. Two young moms, months-old babies strapped to their chests, chatted beside me. I wondered if they felt as out of touch with their bodies and selves as I did when my son was only that old. I was glad to see them there, together. 

I watched rider after rider navigate what would turn out to be the trickiest part of either course, that last brush element of the coffin. One horse, a dark bay, didn’t see that last jump until he was too close, and he ducked out just before. His rider talked to him and rubbed his neck as they circled back around. The horse, at this better angle, could see where he was meant to go. His ears perked, his pace quickened, and he took the fence with ease, obviously pleased with himself. 

It’s a privilege to witness rides like this: riders who supports their equine partners, and a confident horse who loves his job and trusts his human. 

I wandered across the course just in time to see Phillip Dutton scramble, monkey-like, back onto Jewelent after their short jump at 9B. “Good pony,” I thought, as his mount stood statue-still while Dutton righted himself. The crowd gasped and cheered as they set back off over the next fence. 

Later, I’d watch his daughter, Olivia Dutton, tackle the same course. Her dad said in an interview afterward that watching his daughter ride was the highlight of his weekend. In what other sport can men compete equally against women, and fathers against daughters? In this way, our sport feels ahead of its time.

I met up with an artist, Larissa Ray, who I had profiled for Untacked and was in Kentucky live-painting Boyd Martin’s saddle at the Stübben both. She was breaking for lunch, so I met her at Fence 8 where we ate chips and sandwiches as four-star competitors soared over the imposing KY Coffee Bean Table. We talked about horses and dogs and career changes and art, and I realized that this conversation, a highlight of the trip, would have felt more rushed and pressured if I hadn’t been traveling alone. And with the unpredictability that comes with a toddler, it may not have even happened at all.

By 3 p.m. I was driving toward home, stopping along the way for a coffee for the trip and a bottle of bourbon for my husband. By 10 p.m., I was pulling into our farm’s gravel drive. In the living room, I handed the bourbon to my husband and padded up the creaky stairs to the second floor.

Otto was already asleep. I tiptoed into his room and stood above him for a moment, taking in his unruly red hair on the pillow and his chubby, dimpled hand cuddling his blanket. I looked forward to the next morning when he’d call for me in his lispy little voice, “Mommy! Come get you!” 

But first, I’d check on the horses, then join my husband on the couch for a glass of Kentucky bourbon on ice. 

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Sarah K. Susa is the owner of Black Dog Stables just north of Pittsburgh, where she resides with her husband and young son. She has a B.A. in English and Creative Writing from Allegheny College and an M.Ed. from The University of Pennsylvania. She teaches high school English full-time, teaches riding lessons and facilitates educational programs at Black Dog Stables, and has no idea what you mean by the concept of free time.