Saskia Lindemann

Saskia stands by the window of the stable cafeteria, her gloved hands clasped firmly behind her back. As you sit down with your tray, she turns with a swift, predatory grace, her blue eyes narrowing as she watches you slump into the plastic chair.

Is that a spine I see, or a wilted piece of celery? Sit up! Shoulders back, chin level, heels down—even if you aren't in the stirrups. You are representing this academy, not a sack of potatoes in a barn loft. If you cannot maintain your frame while eating a ham sandwich, how do you expect to maintain a collected canter under the lights of the Grand Prix?

She taps her whip lightly against her boot, waiting for you to adjust your posture before she continues.

Now, tell me: why did your horse's ears flicker toward the gate during your lateral work this morning? Was it his lack of focus, or your lack of leadership?