Letter to My Coach

I know, this will never be a typical newspaper article. I will not tell you about a recent event, nor will I comment on the latest news that runs on the news. Poor Michael and Damian know me by now: I am not a model journalist. When they give me a task, I tend to write less than I should and enjoy myself even less. And yet, there is something that works in the chaos of my way of doing things, something that pushes me to continue, taking the usual tangents that are so typical of me.

Today, I want to talk about a figure that we too often take for granted: coaches, instructors, guides who surround us and who, in one way or another, transform our lives. They are like sculptors who, with patience and dedication, shape the clay that we are, smoothing the edges with the chisel and helping us find a shape that we often cannot see on our own. And yet, we never thank them enough. Sometimes we only focus on what is not for us, on mistakes, on what we would like to happen but do not. Today I write because I feel I have to. I write to express something that is inside me, and so here I am.

Seven months have passed since I have been here. Weeks that seem like years, in which I have experienced a profound change, almost imperceptible at the beginning, but which is now impossible to ignore. Something inside me has transformed, and for this radical change, I have to thank one person: my riding instructor, David.

Let me tell you a story. Mine.

I am a girl who grew up too quickly, a child who found herself an adult with too many choices to face. I dared to change continents, to leave everything behind to follow new adventures, but I brought with me a subtle, almost invisible fear, that of breaking the patterns that I have always imposed on myself. I am that girl with horses, yes, the one who wakes up before dawn every morning, puts on her worn and muddy boots (I know, I should clean them, but there’s never time!) and runs to the riding stables. That’s where my parallel life lives. I train, I get dirty, I sweat, but I go home with a smile on my face, happy to have breathed that different air, far from the bubble of academic daily life. That little moment of freedom makes me happy. Or rather, I will make myself happy. For a few months, that happiness had been spent. I found myself waking up with a knot in my stomach, overwhelmed by anxiety. I felt insufficient, incapable. Every morning, when the alarm went off, I woke up with the fear of doing everything wrong, of living a day completely out of place. The only relief seemed to be sleep, that unconscious moment that protected me from the constant thought of reality.

And now I’ll explain why.

The riding school, which was once my refuge, the place where I found peace, had become a source of frustration. I didn’t feel good enough, strong enough, enough… nothing. Every mistake felt like an insurmountable failure. Every misstep made me doubt myself. And all of this was suffocating me. Then something happened. David, my instructor, saw what was happening. He didn’t say big words or make big gestures. But he taught me to see things differently, to not seek perfection at all costs, to understand that every step forward, even the smallest, is a goal. He never left me alone, not even when I felt lost. With his perseverance, patience, and silent guidance, he was there to remind me that riding is not just a question of technique, but also heart, of trust, of connection with yourself and with your horse. This letter is for him, for David, but also for all the instructors who, often without realizing it, change the lives of the people they meet. They do not do it with spectacular gestures, but with their presence, their dedication, their ability to bring out the best in us, even when we have stopped believing in it.

Thank you, truly.

And to all of you who read: remember to thank your coaches, instructors, and guides. Because, like sculptors, they are working every day to help you find your best shape.

My experience in high school was, perhaps, one of the worst anyone could imagine. I was utterly alone, completely isolated, as though I were an alien left on the sidelines. I would greet classmates who wouldn’t even look me in the eye. I raised my hand in class to answer questions, but after months of being ignored, I stopped raising it altogether. I withdrew into myself, burying my focus in schoolwork, essays to write, books to study, and my passions. I decided to put on blinders, trying to let life pass by without wounding me—but it always did. Every moment, every second, hurts.

I believed it was my fault, always. Something in me felt broken, as though there was a wound inside me that bled incessantly, clouding my ability to see things clearly. That pain consumed me, tearing apart my heart, my thoughts, and even my passions. At the time, I played tennis and basketball—I’ve always loved sports and always will (which is why I ended up at Fleming, ah!)—but then something shifted. It was as if, in an instant, I had changed my glasses and started seeing the world as a place to escape from.

Tennis, especially, became an obsession. I trained relentlessly, and if my serve was off or my performance fell short, I would grow furious. There was no light at the end of the tunnel anymore, only frustration. Eventually, I broke. It was my instructor, Filippo, who stepped in and told me to stop. He told me to slow down, to take a break. My parents said the same. I had lost all clarity. For the first time, an instructor didn’t push me harder but instead told me to take care of myself. He told me it was enough. A year passed. During that time, my mind became like a Chopin nocturne, drifting into the obsessive complexity of its darkest notes. Sports were no longer an option for me. And it was in that deep despair—the despair of an overactive person trapped in the endless race of their own thoughts—that I discovered horseback riding.

It was only four years ago that I set foot into a stirrup for the first time. Riding was prescribed as therapy, a way to create space for myself, to give my mind a chance to escape to places where it could finally breathe again. And so, my beloved horses came into my life. The first time I rode was unforgettable. It felt as though I had been doing it my entire life. I still remember my father, terrified of horses, accompanying me and trying it out with me. I loved it immediately. It was like a form of sleep, where my mind was completely focused on something else, far away from my usual consciousness. Two days in, I was trotting. Six days in, I was galloping.

I started at a small riding stable near my family’s vacation home. What I learned there, above all else, was love—love and care for these incredible animals. I began riding more and more, and it became a necessity, a way to escape reality. My parents constantly reminded me (and still do) why I took up this sport: to take care of myself, to give myself those precious hours of freedom.

Still, that competitive fire reignited within my drive to train, to push harder. Soon enough, I switched to a stable closer to home and got my first horse, Orchidea. She was a chestnut mare, incredibly difficult for a beginner like me, but in all our shared madness, we were a perfect match. I threw myself into it with all my dedication, training every single day at a highly competitive barn—a clear trigger for a nuclear reaction inside me.

And yet, the feeling was different this time. I started jumping, and I became addicted to the adrenaline. I no longer needed roller coasters; I had my own amusement park in the form of horseback riding.

They say that to heal one obsession, you often replace it with another. Slowly, my life became a balance of school and riding. My coach at the time, Carlo, began putting me on an old Grand Prix champion, Alex, a 17-year-old horse who still felt like a youngster at heart. Alex was the horse who taught me the most. He was a challenge, a true test of my patience and skill. Like me, Alex wanted to make all the decisions, to run freely without restraint—but, oh, could he jump.

When I arrived at this new stable, I was like a bolt from the blue. I had only been riding for a short time, but I found myself taking lessons alongside people who had been riding for years. Once again, I became the outsider, the intruder. But not to my instructor. To him, I was a talent, someone with a spark worth cultivating. My wildness, my inability to hold back, became something to encourage. People began calling me a prodigy, but for me, it was never enough. What I was doing was insane, and now, thanks to David, I can finally see that I was guided by my craziness and adrenaline.

I rode then, and I ride now, every single day—and I suffer when I can’t. This unconscious fear was born back in Italy, where, if I didn’t train my horses, no one else would. No one even cleaned them if I wasn’t there. So, I found myself playing the role of groom for four horses a day, on top of school, terrified that everything would fall apart if I stopped.

David, maybe you’ll read this, maybe you won’t. But for me, riding (perhaps too much) is a way to express the affection I struggle to show. It’s my way of giving to them—my horses—what I need most for myself: galloping to forget, moving and letting it all out so I can refocus afterward. I know, I should limit myself, but I’m afraid. Afraid that what I’m giving them isn’t enough, that I’m not doing enough for them.

In Italy, I reached the point where I was jumping in important categories after just three years of riding. I burned through every possible stage of progression. I even trained horses that belonged to other owners, and I was given young horses to ride/train. But somewhere along the way, something changed. Where was that young girl who started riding out of pure love for these animals? She was still there, always there, but hidden, blinded by the allure of success, by faster times, higher jumps, the adrenaline of 13 obstacles, and the rush of a jump-off.

Orchidea, my first mare, stayed with me during all of that. She was always by my side, and now she enjoys her days in a vast green pasture, peacefully living with her equine friends. But I will forever carry the pain of what I put her through. I’ll never forgive myself for it. After two intense weeks of preparation for a competition, Orchidea started limping. Months later, I learned the truth: a perforated tendon. For a horse, it’s practically an aneurysm waiting to burst. One wrong move could have snapped it entirely. The veterinarians assured me that the injury was an old one, something that had been developing for a long time. But I had aggravated my obsessions had aggravated it.

Meanwhile, school continued its relentless rhythm of solitude and perfectionism. Riding continued too, but at least I had the animals, right? The flame inside me hadn’t burned out. On the contrary, the more I learned, the more I wanted. And so, we made a significant investment in Deesse, the mare I brought with me here. From that moment on, I focused solely on her, and together we became something extraordinary. We placed fifth at the Italian Junior Championships, and our bond became unbreakable. I started to feel happier. Finally, school was coming to an end, and the dream I had fought for years to achieve was becoming a reality: studying at one of the best universities in the world while obtaining great results in my sport.

But deep down, I knew that my approach to sports wasn’t entirely healthy.

Every course became a mathematical equation. I tried to count every single gallop stride, to calculate the exact takeoff and landing distance for each jump. I began creating rigid plans to follow, adopting rituals I couldn’t break, and listening to voices in my head that told me what to do. And so, my obsessions finally became two.

Here enters the present, the seven months of reflection I’ve undergone, and my letter of gratitude to David. I arrived here with the relentless desire to excel in everything I do, but on one hand, I’ve been failing miserably—and that is equestrianism. When I landed, I won a competition within a week, and from there, it felt like my chaotic mind was out of control. I became consumed by my old patterns: obsessing over distances, second-guessing every stride, and putting immense pressure on both Deesse and me. My horse began to feel my tension, and the stress I was imposing on both manifested in her refusals and my mistakes. It was no longer the joyful partnership it once was. I was riding, yes, but not with heartily calculations, anxiety, and the burden of my expectations.

It was David, with his calm directness, who finally broke through, as only a Belgian can do. Before that time, I considered myself a competitive athlete and very into the field. In November, after yet another refusal in competition, he told me with brutal honesty, “You’re not what you were before.” Those words hit me harder than any fall from a horse ever could. But they were exactly what I needed to hear. He wasn’t cruel or dismissive, he was clear, firm, and, most importantly, he believed in the possibility of starting over. David didn’t see my mistakes as the end of the road; he saw them as the start of a new chapter. His words weren’t a judgment but a call to action—a challenge to rebuild myself not as the anxious, obsessive rider I had become, but as the balanced, thoughtful athlete I could be.

David reminded me of what I had forgotten in pursuing success: that this sport isn’t about perfection, ribbons, or adrenaline. It’s about the bond, the trust, and the communication between horse and rider. He stripped away all the noise in my head and brought me back to the foundations, riding not for the accolades but for the love of it. He taught me to listen to my horse, to respect her needs, and to accept that progress isn’t linear. Some days, it’s about galloping forward; other days, it’s about standing still and finding your balance. And I am sorry for all the messages I write to you, but it is my way to have control over the situation. I was not able to trust anyone, but now I feel I can.

One moment stands out vividly in my mind. It was late January, and I competed with Deesse after a while. We had struggled in the higher categories, and we decided to take a step back and enter a smaller class. David supported the decision without hesitation. “Ride well,” he said, not “Ride to win.” And I did. We didn’t soar over towering fences or set records that day, but we rode clean, smooth, and harmoniously. For the first time in months, I felt at peace. After the round, I bent down to pick up a dirty, discarded ribbon lying in the dirt. It wasn’t mine, but it felt symbolic. I wrote on it later: “Because you agreed to start again. Because you embraced failure. Because you are human.”

David, if you ever read this letter, I want you to know that you’ve done more than just coach me—you’ve reshaped the way I see myself, my horse, and my journey. You’ve taught me that being an athlete isn’t about trophies or rankings; it’s about resilience, humility, and the courage to embrace imperfection. You’ve shown me that it’s okay to pause, to fail, and to rebuild. You’ve reminded me to love the process, to honor the partnership with my horse, and to ride for the sheer joy of it—not for the expectations I impose on myself.

So, thank you, David. Thank you for seeing me when I couldn’t see myself. Thank you for teaching me that starting over isn’t a weakness but a strength. Thank you for believing that there is always a way forward, even when the path feels lost. And thank you for reminding me that, above all else, riding is about connection—not just with my horse, but with myself.

This journey isn’t over, and I know I have a long way to go. But because of you, I’m no longer afraid to take the first step. And that, to me, is worth more than any ribbon.