What a Groundhog Taught Me About Riding (and Life)

There’s something grounding about time in the saddle—the rhythmic movement of the horse beneath you, the stillness that settles in your mind, and the way the world seems to quiet, if only for a moment. Riding has always been one of my favorite ways to unplug, reconnect with myself, and find peace amid the busyness of life.

But during a recent ride, I wasn’t the only one appreciating the calm.

As I trotted around the arena, I caught something out of the corner of my eye—a little groundhog, tucked just beyond the fence line, watching intently. At first, I did a double take. Was it really watching me? It was. Still, quiet, observant. And it didn’t move for the entire ride.

I chuckled to myself. Had I just picked up a new fan? A tiny, furry spectator with a keen eye for equitation? As the ride went on and the groundhog stayed rooted in place, I started to feel a strange sense of being seen—not in a performative way, but in a gentle, grounding one. It was as if nature had taken pause to acknowledge the moment right alongside me.

And with that, something shifted. My breath slowed. My hands softened. My connection with the horse deepened. I wasn’t riding for perfection or even for progress—I was just riding. Present, alert, and fully in the moment.

That tiny groundhog reminded me of something I often forget: not everything needs to be rushed, optimized, or shared (although I did stop long enough to grab a video—which you can see on my Instagram). Some experiences are meant to be felt. In a world where we’re so often preoccupied with doing, posting, and achieving, there’s magic in simply being.

Maybe that groundhog wasn’t there to critique my ride (though if it was, I hope it gave me at least a 7.5). Maybe it was there to remind me to slow down and take in the world around me—the smell of the barn, the softness of the breeze, the joy of movement, and the gift of presence.

Because that’s the thing about animals, both wild and domestic—they don’t multitask, and they don’t rush. They live fully in each moment, whether they’re galloping across a field or sitting silently at the edge of a ring.

So the next time life feels loud or overwhelming, I hope you have your own version of a “groundhog moment”—an unexpected reminder to breathe, to look up, and to simply enjoy the ride.