In 1982, I stood outside the dressage arena at the Franklin County Fair in Malone, New York. Groomed and braided, Holly the horse and I baked in the oppressive heat and swirling dust of Adirondack August. Stuffed in a stiff polyester jacket, I yanked at my stock tie, a complicated noose-like scarf. I was in line for the beginner dressage exam. Exam memorized. Tack clean. I was prepared.

My friend Stephanie and I watched other riders through a gap in the sliding doors, sharing nerves and a Snickers bar. Steph was really quiet, then her mom came over.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Mommy,” Steph fake cried, “I need more time. I want it to be perfect. Ranger’s nervous, too.” Her mom, with minimal equine experience, examined Ranger: his bottom lip hung loose, ears and eyes at half-mast.

“Honey, are you scared? You don’t have to do this silly test. How about some lemonade?”

Steph gave me a wink over her shoulder as she walked Ranger to his shady stall, and herself to the Tilt A Whirl.

“Huh,” I thought. I liked lemonade. Maybe I needed more time? I waved my Dad over.

I launched into an award-worthy performance of tween angst. The stress. The stupid stock tie. The 14 people watching — I Could. Not. Do. It. My dad nodded. For a glimmer I thought “I am off the hook!” Then he stepped closer and smiled. Gulp. This was his tell: the Whisper Lecture, comin’ in hot.

Some of you goodie goodies may think a rebel yell, with bulging eyes and occasional spittle was the height of parental redirection, but nay, I say. The Whisper Lecture shot needles of fear through my nervous system like a faulty taser on repeat. I braced for impact. As an additional harbinger of doom, he went nuclear using my middle name.

“Amy Kathleen, I don’t care if you go in there and do the Irish Jig, but you,” he pointed, “and Holly,” he tapped her shoulder, “are going into” more pointing “that arena.” Smile. Anyone watching saw a fatherly pep talk, not marching orders.

Holly and I entered the dim arena, stopped and saluted at X. We walked forward. I asked her to turn right at D. Then the rest of the memorized test fled from my mind like a Dannemora jailbreak. I could picture the rectangular arena, and letters marking transitions, but after that, zilch. Where do I trot? Does the 20 meter circle happen at K or M? I walked an entire loop, which was definitely not on the instructions, and people started fidgeting; my humiliating amnesia was clear for all to feel.

Firmly in the crunch of discomfort, I considered stopping at the doors and dismounting. Then a sliver of courage worked through my fear. I adopted a feigned look of competent concentration and created an interpretive dressage test to the cacophony of creepy carnival music gurgling through distant speakers. When the music sped up, I asked for a canter. The drums started, we crossed the diagonal.

Dressage done right is an art, a beautiful partnership of communication, flexibility and balance. For 12-year-old me at the Franklin County Fair, picture less Monet and more Jackson Pollock. Holly kept us from becoming a qualified disaster by responding to my mismatched cues like a schoolmaster. Step by step we traversed the arena, time dragging behind like a tire. I had no clue how many movements to do, so I just kept drawing patterns with Holly’s footsteps. I treated the crowd to randomly executed circles and serpentines until one of the judges finally yelled ” wrap it up” as I trotted by.

At the presentation of grades and ribbons, I was the last called, with the lowest score. The judge didn’t wax poetic with false praise, surprisingly pinning a blue ribbon on Holly’s bridle. The ribbon was for completion, not excellence. It was a small but radical definition of success.

Now I recognized the blue ribbon as a permission slip — permission to wobble. This is the Year of the Fire Horse, a time said to favor boldness and action over perfection. The measure of courage is simply showing up, from a county fair to a winter Olympics.

Last week at the Olympic Games, when Regina Martinez Lorenzo crossed the finish line of the women’s 10k freestyle, she became Mexico’s first female Olympic cross-country skier. The crowd erupted in cheers, and three ski legends waited to embrace her 108th place finish. It was the purest expression of sport: competitors celebrating one another, and the success of holding the pose of public vulnerability.

Be Pollock or Monet, however you cross the threshold is enough.