When I was a little girl, my grandpa was scared to teach me how to ride a horse.
You see, I’m disabled. I have right hemiparesis—it’s like having the symptoms of a stroke without actually having one. Balance and coordination are a huge challenge for me. But with lots of persuading from my dad—and me begging every day—my grandpa finally agreed to teach me how to ride, just like my cousins and siblings.
My dad believed that if I didn’t know how to fall—or didn’t know what to do when I fell—I’d never learn how to get back up. Not just on a horse, but in life. My grandpa agreed: this was an important lesson.
I’m the oldest grandchild, and Grandpa was a ranch manager for years. People used to call him a horse whisperer. He broke horses for a living before he started managing ranches. The best life lessons he gave his grandkids weren’t in words but in the way of life he lived—country life through and through.
So that day, he decided to teach his disabled granddaughter how to ride, no matter what hurdles stood in my way. It wasn’t going to be easy. Even though he chose the most docile, calm horse on the ranch, my grandpa knew I was going to fail.
I, however, was overjoyed. I confidently walked up to Perry—Grandpa’s most trusted and patient cow horse. I whispered into his ear, “Today is my day! It’s my turn! Everybody else has gotten to learn, and now I get to be just like them. I’m not going to be left out.”
Wearing blue jeans and cowboy boots, I walked into the arena. Grandpa had laid out a saddle horse stand and carefully helped me up—grabbing my left leg and throwing my right over Perry’s back.
“All right, let’s go,” he said calmly but firmly.
I grinned. This was my green light. I gave Perry a little kick and repeated, “Let’s go.” But as the horse started a slow trot, I began to slide down his side. I hit the ground with a thud.
I picked up the reins and walked back to Grandpa. “I fell off,” I told him.
With folded arms and a steady expression, he replied, “I see that. What are you gonna do about it?”
I asked him to help me back up, but he shook his head. “There are going to be times no one will be there to help you. You have to do it yourself. You won’t get to ride horses until you learn how to ride on your own.”
He stood still, letting the arena become my classroom.
I had never gotten on a horse bareback before. But today, I was determined.
I tried jumping up the side of Perry again and again, only to slide back down. I asked for suggestions, but Grandpa just looked at me, as if to say, “Figure it out.”
I tried tipping over a barrel to climb on from there. It didn’t work. Tears started to fall, but Grandpa didn’t show emotion. Just like the world wouldn’t show emotion when I failed. This was the perfect classroom.
I even tried jumping from the saddle horse stand. Grandpa probably thought I’d break my neck. It still didn’t work.
Finally, I climbed the fence of the roping arena, found my balance, and slowly slid across the back of the horse to mount all by myself.
Grandpa nodded. “Now you’ve got something to work with.”
It would be two more weeks before I was ready for trail riding, but I had gained something much more valuable: life-changing skills that would stay with me forever.
I practiced determination and goal-setting.
I practiced patience and resilience.
I learned how to fail until I succeeded.
The lessons I’ve learned through failure have been the cornerstone of my success.
My grandpa was one of my first educators. He gave me a platform to develop skills that shape every aspect of personal and social growth. He helped me “figure it out” when life needed figuring.
As an educator in physical and health education, I strive to teach that same skill—resilience—to my students.
In physical education, we know that true strength isn’t just in muscles (though that helps). True strength is in the mindset. Resilience means showing up, pushing through, and rising every time we fall. It’s not about perfection—it’s about persistence.
So how do we teach resilience?
Every game, every unit, every activity offers students a chance to practice.
They get to fail.
They get to adapt.
They get to figure it out.
And we get to teach something different.
We get to teach life.
This microblog post was a featured post in #slowchathealth’s #microblogmonth event. You can search for all of the featured posts here. Please do follow each of the outstanding contributors on social media (including Heather Burdthe author of this post) and consider writing a microblog post of your own to be shared with the global audience of slowchathealth.com
Pair this blog post with the following:
Teach Your Students How to Fail by Patrick Noel
Finding Their Swish by Judy Lobiano
How Legends Are Made by Heather Burd
Have you read the latest Book of the Month recommendation?
