For those of us fawning over the Olympics, there’s no shame in choosing favorites. Personally, the swimming and various track and field events exhilarate me—the heightened competitive pride pricks my sense of nationalism.

And yet, the ultimate sport of choice for me is neither widely popular nor greatly understood. Naturally I will always root Team USA first and foremost, but the unifying passion branding me a horsewoman since the age of seven fails to divide and conquer based on flag affiliation. When it comes to equestrian sports, I exist vicariously through every two to four beat gait.

Two hundred riders from forty three different countries compete in six events before the world—coveted ambassadors representing thousands across the globe similarly bit by the same bug. The crème de la crème of the sport parades across the screen, riders and horses streamlined like manikins displayed behind a perfectionists’ “Do Not Touch” display.

To non-horse people, the most stimulating blow I parlay is, “Don’t the horses do all the work?” Truthfully I don’t blame the observer from thinking as such. Perhaps this question should be taken more as a compliment than an insult because riders that make their horses look uncannily simple, despite a multitude of sinewy muscle and rippling flesh, deserve the title they bear as professional athletes. The amount of times I’ve dismounted my boisterously unruly horse, oh so frustrated by his inexplicable rebellion to my leg and hand, only to watch my trainer hop on and treat the same movement seemingly without struggle, can be numbered tenfold. The precision and commitment to discipline, clear tactics and direction are what fuel such seamless executions. Perfection can be boring, but it is near impossible to achieve.

The best explication for describing what riding a horse is like is to transfer the feeling. Get on a horse's back and let me know your thoughts. Riding can be as explosive or nonchalant as a person’s personality, except the rider is physically in touch with all and any movement. Whether felt or thought, the horse picks up on any change of mood or confidence departure. Riding is kinetic artistry, a vision played through a harpists' fingers to assemble the music.

I’ve now had to opportunity to ride twice under the tutelage of Olympic athlete and coach Michael Page and such experiences are those not to be forgotten. As freshman in college and my first year on an IHSA team, I listened as he broke everything down to the basics. “When it comes down to it,” he spoke frankly, “you need to ask yourselves, ‘Why do I get up in the morning to go ride? Even if it’s 4 a.m. It’s because you love it. The love is what keeps you interested.” I’ve never been on the back of a horse without remembering this love. It’s a mindless decision for me to ride: I just have to.

When you love to the point of delirium, you find a way to make it work out. Money, the grim reaper envious of dreams and passion, is no object when pursuing that love. I will forever be thankful for the sacrifices my parents made when I was younger that gave me a leg up in the sport. Talent, dedication, and sacrifice have helped me through the rest. I’ve sat on animals that have dumped me in the dirt and cried for the favorite mounts sold. The only horse I’ve ever owned passed away two weeks before my owner status hit it's first year. I studied abroad in Spain and found a horse barn a half hour from my campus. I used to take two buses and walk half a mile to an overgrown field behind an intersection, climb the wire fence and find myself in an enclosure with thirty-five Spanish stallions and mares. I’m still electrified every time I sit on a new horse, so happy that the experience is mine to delight in.

My grandfather took me to riding lessons as a child. He did the talking and gave off a “I sort of know what I’m talking about so don’t you dare put my granddaughter on a clinker or …” attitude. He was a devoted, even if cajoled, lifelong financer and adopted equestrian aficionado thanks to his four daughters.

During the 2008 Olympics in Beijing, we decided to take a drive out to Beezie Madden’s home stable—and my family’s hometown—in Cazenovia, N.Y. I remember the barn was empty. All the horses must have been out in the pasture, and the aisle had been swept clean. One probably could have eaten right off the floor. We walked undisturbed to the back end of the barn towards a murmuring din. A large TV was hanging from the ceiling corner, pictures of horses and riders galloped and jumped unassumingly. I had no idea if I the rider I was watching was Beezie. All I knew was that I wanted to be on that screen one day. To thunder across a golden sand filled arena and envelop my body with the contour of my wild beast underneath over fences taller than me.

With each rider and horse that sets foot in a Grand Prix, I want to be them. Not because I am competitive to a fault—which I am—but because that’s what unconditional love and appreciation must feel like. The achievement of an apex once so improbable, to destroy every and all duplicitous misgivings, and knowing the creation of impossible is possible, is all I could hope for. I still haven't given up my Olympic dreams.

When it comes down to it, my love of the horse will save me like nobody else can, a consistency not even my own personage may own up to.