Finding My Stride: How PRDA Introduced Me to the World of Horses

Therapy looks different for everyone. For some, it’s calming music or yoga. For me? It came with hooves, hay dust, and volunteers sprinting beside me as I plotted my next “independent” move. Enter: Pacific Riding for the Disabled Association (PRDA)—yeah, that’s what it was called back then (now known as Pacific Riding for Developing Abilities).

It’s the place that kickstarted everything—the barn where I went from a tiny two-year-old trying not to slide off ponies to one of the youngest members of the Canadian Para Dressage Team, nearly qualifying for the Paralympics, and later circling right back to where it all began as a coach, volunteer, and full-time barn rat.

So yeah, I went full circle, and it all started here.

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PRDA: Dirt, Grit, and Horses Who Loved the Chaos

PRDA wasn’t some Instagram-perfect barn, but it had heart, and a lot of it. Sure, it had the usual suspects—muddy paddocks, mismatched equipment, and volunteers jogging in worn-out sneakers—but behind it all was something special.

The barn itself? A beautiful, donated facility, sitting in one of the most desirable spots you could dream up for a riding program. It was the kind of barn where the smell of hay, leather, and wet ponies was the default, and no one thought twice about it.

And the horses? Total professionals, pampered and adored, and honestly—thriving. They loved their jobs. They knew exactly what kind of day you were having before you even swung a leg over. They babysat us when we were beginners, upped their game when we were ready for more, and let us learn—even when that meant tolerating our tiny, wobbly chaos.

They were therapy horses, but also teachers, therapists, and sometimes barn comedians (you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a pony refuse an obstacle course like a diva).

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The Therapy I Didn’t See Coming

Here’s the thing: no one told me I was doing therapy.

I thought I was just trotting circles and chasing cones like it was an Olympic sport. What I didn’t realize was that I was secretly doing full-body workouts, strengthening my core, improving my balance, and learning how to speak up—all while casually trying to dodge volunteers holding onto my belt loops.

Every horse was handpicked to challenge me in some way. Some were smooth rides. Others bounced me around like a mechanical bull—forcing my muscles to get their act together.

PRDA’s genius was sneaking in therapy disguised as games, relays, and obstacle courses while I giggled and tried to convince everyone to let me trot alone (which, in hindsight, explains why some volunteers looked very tired).

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The Barn That Became My Village

While other kids were making friends on playgrounds, I was building my circle in the barn aisle with people who were twice my age, smelled like horses, and didn’t flinch when a pony sneezed hay in their face.

There were the 20-something volunteers who treated me like a teammate, not just a “therapy kid.”

The retired man who once rode for the Queen and still happily led ponies beside kids like me.

The mom of another rider, who called sidewalking her version of “me time” compared to caregiving full-time at home.

And yes, the boyfriends dragged in—sweating through jeans, wondering how they’d ended up jogging beside ponies on a Saturday morning, but somehow still showing up week after week.

These people were my crew. They showed up in rain, shine, or “oh look, it’s pouring sideways again.”

And then there were the unplanned bonding moments. Like the time I asked a volunteer—maybe 40 years old—to do up my pants mid-lesson. In my mind, this was totally normal barn behavior. To him? Cue full-body panic. He turned beet red, mumbling like I’d just asked him to defuse a bomb. At the time, I didn’t get it. Now? It’s one of my favorite PRDA stories to tell.

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Sally, Erwin, and Jamie: The Characters That Made Me

Sally rocked Teletubby sweaters like a legend. She made trotting feel like recess—filled with games, cones, and enough barn laughter to drown out even the moodiest pony.

Erwin—tall, quiet, camera always ready—was the guy who somehow managed to snap both my proudest riding moments and my most chaotic “whoops, wrong lead” expressions.

And then there was Jamie—

Jamie, if you’re reading this, I’ve officially morphed into you. Patient (ish), methodical, and obsessed with the details.

Back then, I was a turbo-charged jumper-in-training who wanted ribbons and airtime, not boring circles in the sand. Dressage? Nope. Now? Now I teach the slow stuff, the fundamentals, and yeah—I became a half-decent dressage rider along the way. You win, Jamie.

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Michelle: The One Who Handed Me the Reins

Michelle didn’t just coach me—she handed me space.

She gave me my first jump, my first summer job, and then, brave soul, handed me a microphone to announce an entire horse show (my inner stand-up comic loved it).

Eventually, she even trusted me to judge the same shows I once stressed over as a competitor—Phae Collin’s Dressage Day included. I went from fearing the judge’s table to sitting behind it, clipboard in hand, faking composure like a pro.

So Michelle—thank you for showing me how to lead, how to navigate the circus that is the horse world, and how to hold my ground even when I was wildly out of my comfort zone.

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The Big, Muddy, Beautiful Picture

PRDA wasn’t perfect—and that’s exactly why it was. It was mud-stained boots, horses with big opinions, volunteers who showed up no matter what, and instructors who somehow knew when to let me figure it out the hard way.

Since those early days, I’ve gone on to teach, volunteer, and work in barns and offices at multiple therapeutic riding programs. I even free-leased a pony to a therapy program, passing the reins to the next kid who needed them.

I went from trotting obstacle courses with three sidewalkers to becoming one of the youngest riders on the Canadian Para Dressage Team, hat-tricking at my first international competition, and getting this close to the Paralympics.

I’m not coaching right now, but every time I set foot in a barn or throw out a sarcastic “trot on” to someone learning the ropes, I carry PRDA with me.

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PRDA Will Always Be Home

I may have outgrown my tiny saddle and the ponies I once pinned volunteers against the wall with—but PRDA? That place is stitched into me.

PRDA taught me that grit and laughter can live in the same arena. That you don’t need perfect footing to find your stride. And that sometimes, therapy smells like liniment, sounds like giggling kids and squeaky saddles, and feels like home.

PRDA will always be home. And yep—I’m still trotting on.