The Stories We Tell to Keep Going: How Riders Narrate Their Way Through Impossible Odds

There's a particular psychological alchemy that happens when circumstances become genuinely overwhelming—when the odds are stacked impossibly high, when systemic barriers seem insurmountable, when rational calculation would suggest giving up. Athletes facing these conditions don't typically respond with cold logic or strategic reassessment. Instead, they tell themselves stories. Not lies exactly, though the line can blur, but narratives that make continued effort feel meaningful, that transform obstacles into tests of character rather than evidence of futility. For equestrian riders navigating adversity and inequity, these motivational narratives become the psychological architecture that sustains participation when external conditions would crush it.

The research on how riders maintain motivation reveals distinct narrative patterns, each serving different psychological functions but all oriented toward the same goal: making persistence feel possible and worthwhile despite overwhelming odds (McVey, 2021; Ronkainen & Ryba, 2019; Tobin & Losty, 2023). These aren't conscious fabrications—riders genuinely believe the stories they're telling. But they're also not neutral descriptions of reality. They're interpretive frameworks that foreground certain aspects of experience while minimizing others, that attribute meaning in ways that support continued engagement rather than withdrawal.

Bravery and grit narratives appear most prominently, particularly when riders confront fear, exclusion, or systemic barriers that would justify retreat. Riders frame themselves as courageous, unyielding in the face of adversity, possessed of determination that sets them apart from those who give up when things get difficult (McVey, 2021). The narrative often centers on "overcoming the defiant horse"—the difficult animal who resists, who tests the rider's skill and resolve, who becomes the external manifestation of all obstacles the rider faces. Successfully managing this horse becomes proof of the rider's bravery, evidence that they belong despite whatever external forces suggest otherwise.

What makes this narrative psychologically powerful is how it reframes vulnerability as strength. The rider who's actually frightened—of falling, of failure, of judgment from more established participants—can transform that fear into the raw material of courage. You can't be brave without being afraid, the logic goes, so acknowledging fear while continuing anyway becomes not just acceptable but admirable. The narrative converts potential weakness into virtue, making continued participation feel like moral achievement rather than stubborn refusal to accept unfavorable odds.

Instructors and peers reinforce this narrative, sometimes explicitly. "Get tough" becomes the advice when riders hesitate. "Don't let the horse win" frames every interaction as a test of will that the rider either passes or fails (McVey, 2021). This social reinforcement matters—it confirms that the rider's internal narrative aligns with community values, that interpreting adversity as a challenge to overcome rather than a signal to reconsider is the "right" response. The rider who might privately doubt whether continuing makes sense finds external validation for the bravery narrative, making it easier to maintain even when costs accumulate.

But bravery narratives carry risks that the research doesn't fully articulate though they seem implicit. Framing every obstacle as something to overcome through courage and determination can prevent realistic assessment of when retreat or redirection might actually serve wellbeing better than persistence. Not every barrier should be pushed through. Not every "defiant horse" is a test of character—sometimes it's just a dangerous mismatch. The bravery narrative, while motivationally powerful, can trap riders in situations that genuinely harm them while framing that harm as necessary price of courage.

Care and ethical responsibility narratives provide an alternative or complementary framework. Some riders shift focus from dominance and overcoming to care and partnership, seeing themselves as responsible caretakers who advocate for their horse's wellbeing (McVey, 2021). This narrative generates motivation through alignment with personal values rather than through proving toughness or winning against resistance. The rider persists not because they refuse to be defeated but because the horse depends on them, because ethical action requires continued engagement even when circumstances make it difficult.

This care narrative seems psychologically gentler than the bravery framework—less about conquest, more about responsibility. But it carries its own burdens. When motivation derives from being needed, from fulfilling obligations to another being's welfare, withdrawal becomes abandonment. The rider facing genuine barriers to continued participation—financial stress, physical injury, systemic exclusion—can't just decide the costs outweigh benefits. They've constructed themselves as the horse's advocate and protector, which means their wellbeing becomes secondary to that responsibility. The care narrative sustains motivation, yes, but potentially at the expense of the rider's capacity to prioritize their own needs.

Balancing bravery with care allows some riders to maintain motivation by drawing on whichever narrative better fits immediate circumstances (McVey, 2021). Facing fear? Activate the bravery story. Confronting criticism about training methods? Shift to the care narrative that emphasizes ethical partnership. This flexibility provides psychological versatility, multiple pathways to sustained engagement depending on the specific challenge. But it also requires considerable narrative dexterity, the ability to hold somewhat contradictory self-concepts—tough conqueror and gentle caretaker—without experiencing cognitive dissonance that undermines either story.

Future-oriented and hopeful narratives operate through temporal displacement, constructing stories about eventual success that make present adversity feel temporary and meaningful (Ronkainen & Ryba, 2019). Riders frame setbacks as "tests of will," obstacles as necessary challenges on the path to achievement, present suffering as investment in future vindication. The narrative isn't about current circumstances but about the positive future self who will have overcome all this, who will look back and understand that everything difficult was actually essential preparation for eventual triumph.

These hope narratives sustain motivation through systemic inequity or repeated obstacles by recontextualizing them. The barrier isn't evidence that the system is rigged or that continued effort is futile—it's proof that you're being tested, that your eventual success will be that much more meaningful because you persisted despite everything. Financial precarity isn't a structural problem requiring systemic solution; it's an obstacle you personally will overcome through hard work and perseverance. Exclusion isn't about discrimination; it's about proving yourself worthy despite initial rejection.

The psychological function is clear: hope narratives make unbearable circumstances feel bearable by promising they're temporary and purposeful. But they achieve this by systematically minimizing or omitting the role of luck, privilege, and structural inequality (Ronkainen & Ryba, 2019). The narrative focuses on hard work and perseverance as the path to success while downplaying how many riders work just as hard but don't succeed because they lack resources, connections, or the random breaks that success often requires. This keeps individual riders motivated but potentially prevents recognition of systemic problems that no amount of individual persistence can overcome.

There's something both inspiring and troubling about riders maintaining hope and trust in their prospects when objective circumstances suggest they shouldn't. It's inspiring because human capacity to find meaning and motivation despite adversity is genuinely remarkable. It's troubling because these hope narratives can keep people invested in systems that exploit them, framing exploitation as challenge and suggesting that eventual reward will justify all present suffering. The line between adaptive optimism and participation in one's own exploitation gets blurry.

Identity and belonging narratives provide yet another motivational framework, this one centered on legitimacy and community membership. Riders tell themselves stories about being "real riders" or "worthy participants," constructing identities that buffer against exclusion and fuel continued engagement (McVey, 2021; Tobin & Losty, 2023). When facing judgment from more established participants or navigating contested expertise—who counts as knowledgeable, whose horsemanship is legitimate—maintaining an internal narrative of belonging helps resist external messages that you don't quite fit, aren't quite good enough, should probably give up and leave space for those who really belong.

These identity narratives interact with the others. The brave rider who persists despite fear gets to claim identity as someone courageous. The caring partner who prioritizes horse welfare gets to identify as ethical. The hopeful rider working toward future success gets to see themselves as dedicated. Each narrative reinforces the identity story, and the identity story makes the other narratives feel more authentic and sustainable. It's a mutually reinforcing system where the stories validate each other, creating psychological coherence that supports continued participation even when external circumstances would rationally suggest reconsidering.

What the research reveals, though doesn't quite state explicitly, is that these narratives are simultaneously essential and potentially dangerous. They're essential because motivation under genuinely adverse conditions requires some interpretive framework that makes effort feel meaningful. Pure realism about overwhelming odds would counsel withdrawal, but withdrawal means abandoning athletic identity, community membership, relationships with horses, and potentially the only source of purpose and accomplishment the rider has access to. The narratives make persistence psychologically possible when circumstances would otherwise crush motivation entirely.

But they're potentially dangerous because they can keep riders invested in situations that genuinely harm them, prevent accurate assessment of when structural barriers actually are insurmountable, and frame exploitation or inequity as personal challenges to overcome rather than systemic problems requiring collective action. The rider telling themselves stories of bravery, care, hope, and belonging might be demonstrating admirable resilience—or they might be participating in their own continued exploitation, unable to recognize when the system isn't testing them but using them.

The research doesn't resolve this tension, probably because it can't be resolved neatly. The same narrative that sustains one rider through temporary adversity toward genuine achievement might trap another in perpetual struggle that never yields the promised rewards. Context matters: how overwhelming the odds actually are, what resources the rider has access to, whether the barriers they face are surmountable through individual effort or structural in ways that require collective change. But riders constructing motivational narratives typically lack perspective to make those distinctions accurately. They tell the stories that keep them going, and whether that serves them well or poorly often only becomes clear in retrospect.

Perhaps what matters most is recognizing that these aren't just individual psychological patterns but responses to conditions that require them. Riders wouldn't need elaborate motivational narratives to persist if participation didn't involve overwhelming odds or systemic inequity in the first place. The bravery stories, care frameworks, hope narratives, and identity constructions are adaptive responses to genuinely adverse circumstances. Addressing those circumstances—making equestrian sport more accessible, reducing financial barriers, confronting exclusion and discrimination—might reduce the psychological burden on individual riders to narrative their way through obstacles that shouldn't exist at all.

But until those structural changes happen, if they ever do, riders will continue telling themselves stories that make impossible odds feel surmountable, that transform adversity into character-building challenge, that promise future vindication for present suffering. Whether we celebrate this as resilience or recognize it as adaptive response to exploitation probably depends on whether we benefit from riders' continued participation regardless of cost to them. The stories work, after all. They keep riders going. Whether that's ultimately good for the riders themselves remains an open question the narratives are specifically designed not to ask.'

References

McVey, R. (2021). An ethnographic account of the British equestrian virtue of bravery, and its implications for equine welfare. Animals, 11(1), Article 188. https://doi.org/10.3390/ani11010188

Ronkainen, N. J., & Ryba, T. V. (2019). Developing narrative identities in youth pre-elite sport: Bridging the present and the future. Qualitative Research in Sport, Exercise and Health, 12(4), 548–562. https://doi.org/10.1080/2159676x.2019.1642238

Tobin, G., & Losty, C. (2023). Understanding the barriers and facilitators to help-seeking in Irish equestrian sport. European Journal of Sport Sciences, 2(6), 93–106. https://doi.org/10.24018/ejsport.2023.2.6.121