06/23/2025
The Work That Changed Me—Through Horses
I thought I understood bodywork.
Touch here. Stretch that. Cue sigh of relief and noble head tilt.
But something shifted.
Not in my hands.
Not in my technique.
In me.
Because this work especially with horses It doesn’t just teach you what to notice.
It teaches you how to listen to things that don’t make noise.
Like how stillness isn’t always peace.
Sometimes it’s a body holding tension like a secret it never learned how to tell.
(And wow, does that hit close to home.)
I used to hunt down tight spots like a pirate chasing buried fascia.
Now I ask:
What’s being guarded?
What’s been rehearsed so many times, the horse doesn’t even know it’s bracing anymore?
Some horses melt the second your hand lands—
like they’ve been waiting for someone who doesn’t ask too much too soon.
Others?
They read your energy like a résumé.
And if you pass the vibe check, they might offer a single breath as a peace offering.
Maybe.
And release?
It doesn’t show up like a fireworks display.
Sometimes it’s a tail that stops flicking.
Sometimes it’s the absence of something that’s always been there.
You feel it in your own breath before you see it in theirs.
(Unless you’re holding your breath too. Ask me how I know.)
I used to think bodywork was about doing something to a horse.
Now I’m convinced most of the time, they’re working on me.
Subtle. Quiet. Incredibly patient teachers in 1,200-pound bodies.
This isn’t about fixing.
It’s about permission.
It’s about showing up so calm they stop checking for danger
and so honest they don’t mistake you for it.
Stillness, I’ve learned, isn’t something you give a horse.
It’s what they give you when they decide you’re not interrupting the conversation they’re having with their own body.
And sometimes, they wait you out.
Not because they’re stubborn because they’re smart.
They’ve seen us coming in hot with good intentions and busy minds.
And they know better.
Every session now feels like a conversation in a language I’m only starting to understand.
The muscle shifts, the weight transfers, the blink that lasts half a second too long it all means something.
You just have to shut up long enough to notice.
And sometimes…
I forget that.
Still try to rush the moment. Still mistake quiet for progress.
And then the horse blinks slowly like, “You done?”
I never am. But I try.
So I’ll leave you with this:
When was the last time your horse let go... before you asked them to?
Did you feel it?
Or were you too busy narrating your own good intentions to feel the grace already unfolding beside you?
