They say, "Pride always goeth before the fall."
Pride usually goeth when you're laying flat on your back on the ground watching your colt buck away from you, when you're not sure if you should try to get up or just lay there a minute until you get your wind back. It goes when you get a little too big for your britches and start thinking you've got things figured out. It goes when you get cocky. It goes when you stand up and feel the bruises forming on your hip and your rear end where you bounced when you landed. It goes when you have to call your grandma to come doctor you up after you get your horse caught and notice the rope burns on your hands are starting to bleed on your starched pink shirt.
Before the fall, my ass.
But you pick yourself up anyway. You pull your hat down low over your hot, beet-red face and brush the dirt and shit off your pants. You pick your coils up out of the dirt. You get back on even though your back and hips and hands are complaining. You line out your goosy colt because if you don't, he'll just figure out that if he can get you off his back, he can be done with his work for the day. You get back on because Grandma's watching you, and you'd hate to let down the toughest, bronc-stomping-est old lady you've ever known. You finish out your ride, because that's just the way it's done. Wrecks happen, colts buck, ropes burn, the ground never gets any softer. It's life. You were born a cowboy lady and you'll be one through every breath you take until your last.
I guess pride never really goes anywhere. It gets bruised, it gets stung, but it really never gets wiped out. And it grows and swells each time the job gets done in spite of the obstacles and the falls. That's where the real pride is...in getting back on when you get thrown off.