One minute I was walking, the next trotting, then into a comfortable canter, and soon enough… a fast, breath-taking gallop. One does not gallop in a ring, and a girl of age nine should not do it all unless she is an expert. I, however, was the farthest thing from an expert.
        

It was a sunny day in the middle of May. My mother could tell someone the exact time in the afternoon, what blouse she was wearing, and what we had for dinner that night. She was the classic, scared-to-death mother that saw her little girl thrown from a horse landing directly on her head, and nearly trampled. This is why I have never tightened another girth, put on another bridle, or stepped my foot into another stirrup of a horse to this day.
        

Looking back, I can remember that day perfectly: I wore my not so lucky pink, “Rhode Island” t-shirt, my tan riding pants, and my favorite pink and green striped knee socks scrunched into my brown riding boots. Those pants have fallen into the “give to the poor” bag that my mother would drop off at the church; we would not be needing them again.
        

That day I rode a new horse, Nutmeg. She was pretty: blotched with brown and white spots. I always liked her, and she was one of the few horses in the barn that I would occasionally sneak an extra mint to when the instructor had her back turned. I was excited! That day I was going to do some jumps.
        

Recalling now, that was not even close to the first day that I started jumping. I was getting pretty good at it, and comfortable as well. I had been thrown a few times, but they were quite minor. None of them were significant enough to make me even consider giving up this enjoyable hobby.
        

“Okay, take her for a warm-up lap and do that first jump in the center. After you turn the corner, begin your canter.” These were the words of my beloved instructor, Heather. I respected her, and looked up to her as a rider, teacher, and person. I did that jump as I was told. It was a clean one too. The corner was creeping up on me. I squeezed my small calves to the side of him, and with a slight kick of my heel, I whistled, “Canter!” She obeyed.
        

The wind was blowing through my ponytail, and I let out a grin. There was no better feeling than that. I closed my eyes for a split second, like I always did when cantering. It was that feeling of complete freedom and loss of thoughts that I looked forward to each Tuesday. As soon as I opened my eyes, my daydream was squashed. Her pace had greatly accelerated. “Ho!!” Heather hollered. That instruction did not affect the horse one bit.
        

I felt my grip slipping. My palms began to sweat, and soon enough the reins were out of reach. I began to panic. My legs were only as strong as they could be for my age. As I reached up in my half-seat for control of the reins, she reached forward as well. One minute I was sitting in a comfortable saddle, and the next I was airborne. I did my best summersault of my childhood that day, but did not exactly stick the landing. My head was the first thing to contact the ground. As I looked up, the hooves of the sweet horse that I had always been so generous to just nearly missed my head. I guess those mints did not mean much to her.
        

“Don’t move! Stay there! Don’t get up!” This was what I heard swirling in my mind. Two voices were fighting each other. One yelled, “Get up, stupid girl! Get out of that ring this instant!” And the other, “Stay there; don’t move.” Of course I listened to the one that was not the instructor’s.
        

I got up, and my legs began to shake. I looked ahead, and my mother was sprinting towards the fence. The horse, on the other hand, was having a midday snack of leaves.
        

A known saying to any equestrian is, “Once you fall, get right back on. Or else, you will never get back on again.”

The other times that I had taken a spill, I always got right back on; it was never an option to walk straight off. However, this time, my mother looked Heather square in the eyes and said, “She is not getting back on that horse.” My instructor looked at her and nodded.
        

My mother got me in the car and asked a million questions. “Where does it hurt? On a scale of 1-10…” She laid me on our family room couch and called the doctor, completely convinced that I was concussed. She looked in my eyes and moved her pointer finger from side to side. I followed along with all of her shenanigans.
To this day, six years later, I remember the fall. I remember the horse, and I remember the overwhelming feeling of fright. But what I remember the most was how I cried that night. I did not cry because my head hurt, or because my horseback riding days were over. I cried because that night my mother did not allow me to attend the circus that was scheduled for seven P.M. Instead, I had to lie on the couch and rest my head.