Page 12 of Tame Our Wild

No. Scratch that.

He is a part of the problem.

I ended the weekend with zero points toward the world standings after failing to stay on.

Both rounds.

As with each event throughout the season, at the World Finals, all forty riders still compete, but only the top twenty with the best scores collected over the season advance to the championship round. The world champion is determined by the rider with the most total points for the season.

Which is why each ride I must be on my A game.

In both rounds on Saturday and Sunday, it was as if my body was enslaved to its own internal timer. It would give up when the three-second mark hit, despite my mentality doing everything in its power to keep me mounted on the bull’s back.

I told my therapist about it at my appointment yesterday. She told me I needed to understand that my fear and trauma don’t define me—that I need to face my fear with courage.

I thought I did.

In practice, I’m a force to be reckoned with. In the minor league, I rode my ass off even when we were in dark stadiums full of fans. However, the second I get on a bull and realize I’m in an arena competing at the professional level, the images come flooding back.

My cries of agony hushing the crowd.

My screams echoing in a space so silent you wouldn’t realize there are thousands of people watching.

My tears flowing down my face like drops of lava searing me to the bone.

My lungs struggling to inflate and deflate the way they are supposed to.

The visions are vivid and alive, completely knocking me off balance and making me forget I’m riding a beast as capable of trampling me into the ground as Lil’ Loco did.

Losing my focus while I’m riding makes me even more vulnerable. It’s dangerous.

I can’t let that memory consume me when I’m determined to replace it with new ones. Thanksgiving is a few days from now, right before this next event.

I know I have so much to be grateful for.

My recovery.

My goals that are still well within reach, thanks to the doctors and therapists who have stuck by my side every step of the way.

My supportive family, who have never given up on me despite my choice to keep riding.

I know healing trauma takes time. And as much as I wish I could snap my fingers and be back to normal, I have to take it one day at a time.

One ride at a time.

My legs are kicked out across the porch swing bench, my left boot-cut pant leg rolled up to expose the lower half of my leg. I stretch out, using my pointer finger to trace the long outline of the scar on my shin, just below my knee.

The scar tissue is firm, the red and pink pigmentation standing out in stark contrast against my Arizona tan, which has been gradually fading since summer ended.

The crunch of tires on gravel has my head snapping upward as a truck barrels down the driveway, a plume of dust trailing in its wake that floats up against the clear blue sky. Aaron’s white Ford, pulling a long trailer, passes under the arch with our family brand burned into the wood. He pulls into the driveway, puts it in park, and hops out, plopping his cowboy hat on his head.

I roll my pant leg back down and stand, grabbing my hat off the table beside the bench. I place it on and walk toward him.

My excitement isn’t contained. “Who did you bring me today?”

Aaron wanders around the side of the trailer, the palm of his hand striking the side a few times. “This here is Hoodrat and Drama Queen.”

“Hoodrat and Drama Queen,” I parrot, chuckling through my smile.