Why I kept riding through pain for years

Some of my earliest memories aren’t inside a house — they’re outside, with horses.

My best friend had a pony, and all I ever wanted was to be at her place. Even when she was upstairs in her room playing, I was outside, standing with the horses and ponies. I didn’t need noise or games. Being there was enough. From very early on, riding wasn’t just something I did. It was my own world — something no one could interfere with. My safe space. My thing.

That feeling never left.

As I grew older, riding stayed with me. It became routine, structure, identity. Eventually, it became my profession. I’ve worked in this sport for more than ten years, and when riding is your job, pain doesn’t automatically mean “stop.” It means “adapt.”

So I adapted.

When discomfort started, I shifted my position just to get through the ride. Sitting slightly wrong felt like a small price to pay. But the body keeps score. The pain didn’t disappear — it moved. My back started hurting too. What began as something localized slowly spread.

The original pain was in the intimate area. A burning sensation. Uncomfortable, but easy to dismiss. I told myself it was probably normal. I didn’t talk about it. I kept it to myself. I googled a bit, quietly, late at night — but mostly, I stayed silent.

What made it harder was that nobody talked about it. Not trainers. Not riders. Not openly. So I reached the only conclusion that seemed logical at the time: maybe there was something wrong with me. Maybe my body was the problem. Maybe I was built wrong.

When riding became my profession, that belief hardened.

I was in pain at work every single day. And when pain is tied to your job, it becomes more than physical — it becomes psychological. You don’t ask how much something hurts. You ask what happens if you stop. What if I can’t ride for a few days? No riding means no work. No work means no money.

Listening to my body felt like a risk I couldn’t afford.

So I pushed through. I became less sensitive, more disconnected. It felt easier to tell myself “don’t complain” than to face the possibility that something needed to change.

At the same time, my life outside the stable was unraveling.

There was a lot of family trouble. I spoke up about something that had been ignored for years — the elephant in the room. And when I did, I became the problem. I was pushed out. I left my country and started over alone somewhere else. It was hard, but it made me stronger.

Through all of that, riding was the only constant.

No matter what was happening in my head, the routine stayed. The stable gave me a reason to wake up every day. My body knew what to do even when my mind felt blocked. Sometimes it felt like my body moved on its own — feeding, riding, cleaning — when everything else felt frozen.

That’s also why the pain was so dangerous.

Riding wasn’t just a sport. It was who I was. I remember having moments of real crisis, asking myself: If I can’t ride anymore, who am I? That fear alone was enough to keep me silent.

Until my body forced me to listen.

There was a moment when ignoring the pain was no longer possible. I was bleeding. That had never happened before. That was the line — not because it suddenly hurt more, but because it was undeniable. My body had been asking for attention for a long time. I had ignored it. Now it was screaming.

Looking back, I wish someone had told me earlier that this wasn’t just me. That it was normal. That there were practical solutions — padded underwear, protective creams, small adjustments that could change everything. Most of all, I wish someone had told me I wasn’t alone.

Because once I started speaking about it, I realized how many riders were living exactly the same thing. Quietly. Ashamed. Convinced it was their fault.

From the very beginning, this experience shaped how I think about what I create today. Not just in terms of comfort, but in terms of focus. Riders already carry enough — physically and emotionally. We shouldn’t have to spend our rides fighting our own bodies.

What I wanted was simple: to give riders the opportunity to focus on what really matters. The connection. The movement. The horse. The feeling that made us fall in love with riding in the first place.

If you recognize yourself in this story, know this: you’re not weak, you’re not broken, and you’re not alone. You deserve comfort. You deserve care. And you deserve to feel understood.

If you’re looking for a way to ride comfortably without distraction, you can learn more about My Riding Underwear here.