Bear with me—this one relates to acting, I promise.
Ever take on something new for your acting career… and immediately wonder what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into?
Full disclosure: this post has less to do with cameras and more to do with saddles.
So here’s the setup:
I’m 64 years old. My agent tells me I should learn to ride a horse so she can submit me for Westerns. And like any seasoned actor who wants to work, I said, “Sure, absolutely.”
Inside? I was screaming.
Because “learn to ride” sounds charming in theory—until you’re standing next to a 1,200-pound animal with opinions.
And somewhere between scheduling the first lesson and brushing that first horse, I had a moment of clarity:
This wasn’t just about riding.
It was about dragging an old fear out of the pasture and seeing if I could finally look it in the eye.
Frosty the Four-Legged Menace
When I was about ten years old, I lived with my dad for a while. And during that chapter of my life, there was… Frosty.
Frosty was a pony in the same way a hurricane is “just a little wind.”
He was Satan on four legs—mean, unpredictable, and always looking for someone to ruin.
Whenever it was my turn to care for him, he’d puff up, glare at me, and yank on his chain like he was testing the weak points in my fear. And yes, I said chain—not a lead rope. A chain.
(Red flag #1).
One day, I was leading him out to pasture—Frosty decided he was done being led. The chain wrapped around my wrist, and before I could react, he took off.
I hit the ground hard and just kept going—dragged across the field like a rag doll in a rodeo. But somewhere in that chaos, pure survival kicked in.
He didn’t stop. I did.
I managed to get the chain off my wrist mid-drag. Ten years old, terrified, but something in me said: Get out, now.
Frosty disappeared into the apple orchard like a smug little demon on a victory lap.
Me? I sat in the dirt, bleeding, shaking, and very much alive.
And if there’s a metaphor in there… we’ll get to it.
The Agent’s Suggestion—and My First Lesson
A few months ago, my agent casually mentioned that I should probably learn to ride a horse.
“You’ve got the voice and the look. I could submit you for Westerns—if you can ride.”
She said it so breezily, like I could just hop on a stallion and trot into a Clint Eastwood close-up before lunch.
And of course, I said, “Sure! Absolutely.”
Inside? I was having flashbacks. Chain, wrist, dirt, demon pony.
But I signed up for lessons. Because I want to work. Because growth is part of this job—even when it comes dressed in a saddle and stares at you with unblinking eyes.
Day one, I met the horse.
Her name was Fiona.
She was a regular-sized horse—about 1,200 pounds.
Which, if you ask me, is still enormous.
She wasn’t mean. She wasn’t wild. She was calm, gentle… and very aware that I was not.
I froze.
But I also brushed her. (There’s video proof—me trying not to flinch while grooming a creature that could kill me by accident.)
I was stiff, nervous, and fully aware that horses can sense your energy. Mine? Somewhere between “mild terror” and “fresh meat.”
Fiona, for her part, liked treats.
So I bribed her not to kill me.
Still, I showed up.
And sometimes, that’s the most important part.
Lessons from the Saddle
Here’s what I’ve learned so far:
Riding a horse isn’t about control.
It’s about calm.
It’s about trust.
It’s about mutual effort—me doing my part, the horse doing hers, and neither of us freaking out when the other one makes a mistake.
Fiona doesn’t respond to tension. She responds to presence.
If I’m nervous, she feels it. If I’m distracted, she knows. If I get rigid, she gets stubborn. The only way forward is to soften, breathe, and ask—not demand.
And honestly? That’s acting.
You don’t walk into a scene trying to dominate it. You walk in ready to listen, to respond, to stay grounded no matter what the other person—or the script—is doing.
You bring your calm. You offer your trust.
And if you’re lucky, the scene meets you halfway.
The best actors I know don’t muscle their way through a performance. They show up soft but strong. Present. Open. Still.
The same way I have to be with Fiona.
And I’m learning that when I trust her, she trusts me. When I stop trying to ride and just stay connected, we move better together.
It’s not about power. It’s about partnership.
Growth at 64
At 64, I’m not trying to prove anything.
I’m not chasing youth. I’m not auditioning for the rodeo. I’m not trying to become the next great Western star (though hey, if Yellowstone calls, I do answer my phone).
What I am doing is saying yes to growth.
To staying uncomfortable.
To pushing just a little past the edge of what feels safe—because that’s where all the interesting stuff lives (and also where the ibuprofen lives).
Acting, at its core, asks us to evolve.
To stay open. To stay human. To keep showing up as someone who doesn’t have it all figured out—and is willing to step into the unknown anyway.
That’s why I’m learning to ride a horse.
Not because I want to conquer fear, but because I want to walk alongside it without flinching.
Preferably without falling off—or running out of treats.
You don’t age out of learning.
You age into deeper stories.
And I want to be the kind of actor—and the kind of person—who keeps learning until the credits roll.
Or until the horse steps on my foot. Whichever comes first.
Bringing It Home
Looking back now, Frosty taught me a lot—mostly about terror, distrust, and how fast a ten-year-old can actually run when properly motivated.
Fiona is teaching me something else entirely.
She’s teaching me that fear can be met with patience.
That trust takes time—and sometimes a strategically deployed bag of treats.
That you don’t have to overpower something wild to move with it.
You just have to stay steady—and maybe bribe it a little.
The same is true with acting. And honestly? The same is true with life.
Fear doesn’t pack its bags and politely move out when you start something new.
It stays. It mutates. It roots for you to trip over your own shoelaces.
And to be honest, the fear’s still there—just with a new twist.
When I was ten, the fear was getting dragged across the field.
At 64, the fear is falling off and needing a brand-new hip.
But you don’t have to let fear drive the trailer.
You just acknowledge it, tip your hat to it… and keep riding anyway.
If acting—or anything else—is calling your name, maybe it’s time to stop letting fear hold the reins.
You don’t have to be fearless to start.
You just have to be willing (and maybe keep a few peppermints handy, just in case).
If you’re ready to take that first shaky step—whether it’s toward a stage, a camera, or a horse that could squish you flat—I put together a free guide that’ll help you begin.
📥 Grab it here if you haven’t already.
You’ve got time.
You’ve got stories.
And the truth is, you’re probably braver than you think.
(And if you’re not, well… that’s what the treats are for.)
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