Daddy, I want a pony; the exploitation of girls in the equestrian world

I grew up like so many little girls do; begging my parents for a pony. We didn’t really have the money for one (unlike my friends at private school) where it was glaringly obvious that I was one of only two “poor” kids in the whole place. I’d been given a 50% fee reduction after sitting an entrance exam but, truth be told, I think they just needed a few academic kids — something they weren’t exactly renowned for. Even though I was in the ‘B’ class, I cleaned up on GCSE results day with a string of As and A*s.

We weren’t poor, not really, but compared to friends living in rambling old vicarages with swimming pools and tennis courts, we definitely were. And anyone who knows the horse world knows that the pony itself isn’t even the main cost — it’s the upkeep. They’re a bottomless money pit. More demanding than any house or car, they consume not only every spare penny but every spare hour. Forget lie-ins. You’re up at the crack of dawn, mucking out, turning out, feeding — twice a day at a minimum. Unless you’re lucky enough to afford full livery or have your own land and staff, you’re committing to twice-daily treks to some yard — often run by cliques that make the drama on Secret Lives of Mormon Wives look tame.

Never have I seen bitchiness like I’ve seen in a yard. The horse world is infamous for it. It’s also infamous for shirking responsibility and exploiting just about everyone it can — horses, grooms, staff — but it’s the young girls who are most vulnerable. Just look at the tragic case of Katie Simpson: a girl exploited and abused by a much older man with money and power in the horse world. It’s always the same story, isn’t it?

I’ve seen it firsthand — young girls, desperate for their own pony, taken advantage of because they’ll do anything for a ride. I’ve stood by and watched it happen. I’ve been complicit. And I’ve been that girl, too; used, humiliated, manipulated all because I didn’t have what they had: my own pony. That desperation made me vulnerable. I could be made into a yard ‘bitch’ without so much as a second thought.

I started riding seriously when I was about ten. I’d never loved anything as much other than my family pets. Riding was my thing. I never missed a lesson. Not when I fell into the freezing Norfolk Broads before a lesson one winter, drenched from head to toe, much to my mother’s horror. Not even when both my arms were broken and in full plaster casts. Nothing could stop me. I wanted to be a showjumper.

My parents supported that dream as much as they could, and I’m forever grateful. I’d be taken to “Own a Pony” weeks during the holidays — a full week of caring for a pony, riding twice daily, ending with a mini showjumping competition that parents came to watch.

One girl, Dulcima Cushing, always stood out. You don’t forget a name like that, do you? She had her own horse — a stunning grey Arabian, I think, maybe called ‘Prince’. She was everything I wanted to be. Perfect kit, the best riding jacket, and those expensive equestrian clothes marketed just to girls like us — branded bomber jackets we wore like a badge of honour. It was always me and her in the final jump-off, and she always took first place. My beloved riding school pony, Perry, gave it everything, but he just didn’t have the gas. Still, I asked for him every time. I truly believed we had a bond.

Then came Saturdays at Salhouse Riding School, working with my best friend, Louise — she lived in one of those huge old vicarages on the Broads, with a swimming pool and tennis courts but no room for a pony. That’s why she didn’t have one. I never missed a Saturday. Louise often did, off in Europe somewhere, sunning herself while I shovelled shit.

Even as a kid, I knew I wasn’t in the same category. Girls with money got better treatment. Fact. The livery girls looked down their noses at me while I tied up haynets for their ponies after mucking them out for 45 minutes — in return for a free ride on a riding school pony and a grand total of four pounds. I’d muck an entire block out, often 10 ponies, then rake the entire yard and stack the muck heap so it looked perfect. Yes, four quid for eight hours of graft starting at 8 a.m. But I did it, because I loved it. And I was painfully aware that I was the poorest girl on the yard. I had the least, but I was one of the best riders — fearless, determined to prove myself. I’d ride anything. I was in A&E more times than I can count.

But here’s the part that still baffles me: in what other world would someone pay to care for someone else’s animal? The horse world has normalised this strange economy where a girl with no money pays to ride, feed, muck out, and maintain someone else’s horse — and thanks them for the privilege. Imagine doing that with dogs. Would you pay someone £300 a month to walk, feed, brush, and care for their Labrador — while they sit back and do nothing? Of course not. With dogs, the owner pays for boarding, training, and daycare. But in the horse world, it’s flipped on its head. The ones doing the hard labour — the riding, the mucking, the soul-giving — they’re the ones handing over cash. It’s bizarre when you really stop and think about it. It’s like someone giving you their houseplant and then charging you rent to water it and talk to it nicely.

But there’s a reason this system exists — and it’s not just about logistics or horse welfare. It’s classism. Pure and simple. The horse world has always been a bastion of the upper class — aristocrats, landowners, families with generational wealth. Riding is still seen as an elite pursuit, another tangible marker of social status. So when working-class or lower-middle-class girls want in, they’re made to pay — financially, physically, emotionally. They’re reminded at every turn that they don’t own the horse, the land, the lineage, the privilege. And so, the system holds: those with wealth can ‘loan’ out their ponies and receive payment for it, while those without are expected to feel lucky just to touch the reins.

And we do. Because if you grow up loving horses, there's nothing quite like them. But loving something doesn’t mean you can’t also see the broken system surrounding it.

I also witnessed a lot of cruelty towards the animals — things that became so normalised I almost didn’t question them for years. Spurs, whips, relentless kicking, screaming — an attitude that “difficult” horses needed to be dominated, broken, or whipped into submission. That was the way. But it isn’t the way. It never was.

Everything changed when my family emigrated to New Zealand in 2001. We finally had our own land — 11 acres with stables — and my parents left it to me to take charge. That’s when horse ownership became fun and freeing. There was no bitchy yard culture, no passive-aggressive signs, no one exploiting me. Just me and my horses. I could give them a peaceful, loving home. It brought me real joy. But even then, I couldn’t quite escape it. I made a new friend who worked as a groom at a top showjumping yard. She was paid next to nothing, overworked, and told she should feel lucky to be there. That sort of “dream job” is so often a disguise for abuse — in horses, in nannying, in any female-dominated caregiving profession, really. I’ve seen friends run ragged for ultra-wealthy families in London, doing everything for their kids in return for a small room and a bit of pocket money. It's not okay just because it’s common.

Now I’m back in the UK, and while I’m not in a financial position to buy land right now, I could technically own a horse and pay livery. But I won’t. Not again. I’ll never step foot into that world as a boarder again.

The next time I own a horse, it’ll be a beautiful cob who likes being brushed and hacked out bareback. No whips. No pulling manes. No forced compliance disguised as training. Just mutual trust, care, and freedom. The way it should have always been.

Maybe it’s time we start calling all of this what it is. Because when you name something, you take its power away. And I think the horse world has been powerful and damaging for far too long.