In the soft light of early morning, out on a dusty field at the edge of Lahore, a young woman adjusts her grip on the reins. She’s wearing a bright shalwar kameez, her dupatta tucked loosely around her shoulders. With a quiet nudge, her horse starts to move slow at first, then faster. The cloth behind her lifts in the wind, not just following her ride but making a statement of its own. This isn’t about tradition. It’s about taking up space where women haven’t always been welcome. Horse riding here has mostly been for men, but that’s changing. One ride at a time, women are showing up at stables, on tracks, and in open fields riding not just horses, but stereotypes. For them, this isn’t just a sport. It’s a way of protest. It’s a way of saying, We belong here too.
Horse riding has always been more than a sport; it’s been a symbol of honour, heritage, and power in the subcontinent. The image of a man on horseback is connected to strength and bravery and often tied to coming from an elite class background in Pakistan. From Mughal emperors to village landlords, horses have been companions of the powerful, and traditionally, that power has had a man’s face. Meanwhile, women were expected to stay behind the curtain, quite literally. Gender separation, very limited access to outdoor activities, and a deeply conservative view of female mobility left little room for women to even dream of horse riding.
For a long time, sports weren’t really seen as something girls should do. They were called unnecessary, even improper, all because of the usual gender expectations. It’s not that women didn’t have the strength or spirit; it’s that they were told, over and over, that the saddle just wasn’t for them. That it wasn’t their place.
In a quiet, leafy corner of Lahore, at a small riding school where the city feels far away, Mahnoor carefully tightens the bridle on her horse. Her movements are steady. The noise of the city feels very far away here; all you just hear is the soft thud of hooves against the ground. “There’s something about being up there,” she says with a grin. “It makes the world feel smaller… and me feel braver.”
She’s one of many young women coming from cities like Lahore, Karachi, and Islamabad who are quietly changing things just by doing something they love, which is horse riding. At clubs where it used to be only boys in the saddle, you’ll now see girls moving with the same ease. They trot, they jump, they compete. And they’re not asking for space anymore; they’re just taking it.
For some people, it’s just a sport. For others, it’s therapy. But for all of them, it’s freedom. Hira, a 25-year-old from Islamabad, still remembers the first time she joined a tent pegging event. “They told me, ‘This is not for girls.’ I nodded. Then I picked up the lance.” She laughs. “When I got the peg, even the critics clapped.”
They’re not alone. Riders like Syeda Aaleen Bokhari, who began riding at the age of five, are making their mark nationally. In her own words: “It is my dream to represent Pakistan in the Grand Prix and bring home a gold medal for my country… My horse trusted me before I trusted him. I treat him like my son, and I love him to all the galaxies and back.”
But their journey isn’t without hurdles. Many riding clubs still don’t have separate changing areas. Some trainers hesitate to take on female students. Girls are asked how long they’ll “keep this up” before they’re expected to settle into more ‘appropriate’ roles. Even in liberal circles, the stares, the whispers – they’re part of the ride.
And yet, beyond the cities, something even more quietly revolutionary is unfolding. In a small village near Okara, 17-year-old Zunaira rides bareback every morning before school. Her mare doesn’t have papers; her saddle is worn and secondhand, but the way she rides, the quiet confidence she carries, is something no money can buy.
Author’s Note: Some names and stories in this article have been changed or blended to protect privacy while reflecting real challenges faced by female equestrians in Pakistan.
These women, urban and rural, are not chasing rebellion. They are reaching for something simple and profound, which is the right to exist, fully, in a space that once belonged only to men. In every stride, there is resistance. In every gallop, a kind of grace.
Not all battles happen on a battlefield. Some take place quietly in riding arenas, in living rooms, in conversations between fathers and daughters, and between a girl and the voice inside her head that keeps asking, “Is this really for me?”
For many Pakistani girls who want to ride, the biggest challenge isn’t learning how to stay balanced in the saddle; it’s staying firm in the face of everything trying to pull them down. Some have to convince their families that it’s “just a sport”, not a rebellion. Others face silence that stings more than any outright refusal, a kind of unspoken disapproval that follows them like a shadow.
For women in Pakistan, getting into the saddle isn’t just about learning to ride; it often means walking straight into resistance. Not because they lack passion or talent, but simply because they dared to step into a space that was never meant for them.
The challenges begin with access. Many riding clubs are not designed with women in mind. Facilities are often outdated or simply unaccommodating – no separate changing areas, no privacy, and rarely a female trainer to turn to. In a sport where comfort and confidence matter, this kind of neglect sends a clear message: you don’t quite belong.
And then comes the scrutiny. Everything gets noticed: how they dress, how they sit, and even how they hold the reins. A girl on a horse still turns heads in many places, and not always in a good way. Boldness in a man is admired. In a woman? It raises eyebrows, stirs whispers, and often invites disapproval instead of encouragement.
But the real weight shows up beyond the riding grounds. Families sometimes hold back not because they don’t care, but because they’re scared. Scared of what people will say, of the judgement, the gossip, and the way society pushes back. Riding still carries this idea, for some, that it’s too masculine… or worse, that it somehow threatens a girl’s modesty or reputation.
Financial barriers add another layer. Riding is not a cheap sport; the cost of training, gear, club fees, and horse maintenance is high. For girls, it’s even harder to justify such an investment when the world around them doesn’t see it as a “serious” pursuit.
Even after pushing through all the barriers, a lot of women still ride with something heavy on their backs: that constant feeling that they have to prove they belong. Not just once, but every time they show up.
And still, they do. Again and again. Not because it’s easy – it isn’t – but because just being there is an act of quiet courage.
There’s something about horse riding that changes you. Not just physically, but deep down. For many women in Pakistan, the saddle becomes more than just a place to sit; it’s a space where fear loosens its grip, confidence builds, and silence starts to break.
Riding teaches control not just of the reins, but of yourself. It asks for balance, focus, and trust. And slowly, those same things begin to shape how you carry yourself, not just in the paddock, but in the world. The act of guiding an animal so powerful, so free, brings a shift that words can’t quite capture. It’s dignity without permission. Strength without apology.
In a society where women are often told how to sit, how to speak, where to go and where not to, horse riding flips the script. It offers a rare moment where the body is not restricted but released. Where movement isn’t monitored but celebrated. That sense of forward motion, of speed and wind and space, can be deeply healing in ways that often go unnoticed. It’s not just about sport or skill; it’s about reclaiming autonomy. About learning to fall and rise again. About building a connection with something that doesn’t care about gender, status, or appearance. A horse responds to energy, not expectation.
For many women, the change that comes with riding doesn’t stop at the paddock. It follows them into daily life in how they walk, how they speak, and how they start to take up space. Not loudly, not to prove a point, just with quiet, steady confidence. Riding doesn’t just teach them how to hold the reins. It shows them they’re allowed to.
In a world that constantly asks women to shrink, to be smaller, quieter, and less, the saddle becomes a place where they can finally grow into their voice, their strength, and their right to move freely.
The path ahead for female equestrians in Pakistan is still bumpy, but it’s no longer blocked. What’s needed now is more than just quiet determination; it’s louder, visible support. Riding clubs need to go beyond basic inclusion and actually start building spaces for women. That means proper facilities, female trainers, and an environment that welcomes girls, not just tolerates them.
The media has a role to play, too. Stories of women riders shouldn’t be treated like rare spectacles; they’re examples of everyday courage. When girls see these stories in print, on screens, and online, they’re more likely to believe, I can do that too.
And families, schools, and communities? They can help shift the narrative by treating horse riding as a real, valuable pursuit. Not some expensive hobby or distraction, but a sport that builds focus, empathy, and leadership – all the things we say we want in the next generation.
Most of all, the women who ride now just need to keep doing what they’re already doing: showing up. Because every time one of them steps into the field, or into the ring, she’s doing more than riding. She’s clearing the way for someone else to follow.
To ride a horse might seem like a small thing. But in a culture that’s spent generations telling women to sit still, stay quiet, and stay small, it’s anything but.
The women in Pakistan choosing the saddle aren’t just picking a sport. They’re claiming space. Rewriting rules. Proving that strength doesn’t always have to shout.
Sometimes, it gallops.
And in that gallop, dusty, fearless, and free, there’s a message:
This ride is hers. It always was.
