04/02/2025
Are We Really Seeing Our Horses?
Yesterday was my first day back trimming hooves after a few weeks of brutal, arctic-like weather. The kind of cold that stiffens everything—hands, joints, even thoughts. But today? Today was perfect.
65 degrees. Sunny. Calm. The kind of day that makes you pause and just breathe.
I was at a client’s place, trimming her horses and meeting a couple of mustangs for the first time. Rescues. Horses from bad situations—some neglected, some abused, all shaped by experiences that taught them humans weren’t safe.
As I trimmed hooves of the other horses, I watched them in their corrals. The way they carried themselves. The way their eyes darted, just for a second, before settling. The way their muscles tightened before relaxing if they relaxed at all.
There’s a moment when you reach toward a horse and they shift away just a hair, so small most people wouldn’t notice. But I do.
There’s a moment when you slip the halter over their nose, and they squint an eye just slightly as if bracing for something they’ve learned to expect.
There’s a moment when they take a treat, but their breath catches, their body stays rigid, and they aren’t really there with you.
What I rarely see is a horse that is truly soft. A horse that is content. A horse that is breathing deeply, responding without tension or resistance not out of compliance, but because they feel seen by their human.
Horses don’t lie the way people do. They don’t say one thing while meaning another. They don’t tell you they’re fine when they aren’t.
But if you don’t see the tiny signs the breath they hold, the way they slightly brace, the fraction of a second delay before they move then it looks like they are masking. It looks like compliance when, in reality, they are just surviving in the only way they know how.
When people say a horse is "shut down," what they really mean is that no one noticed the thousands of tiny moments before that happened the early signs that they were uncomfortable, overwhelmed, unsure. If no one listens long enough, eventually the horse stops speaking.
But the truth is, they never stop. We just stop seeing.
I see this disconnect in both positive reinforcement and pressure-and-release training.
Positive reinforcement teaches horses to offer behaviors for rewards. But just because they engage with us doesn’t mean they feel safe with us. A horse can be reaching for a treat while their body is braced, their mind still guarded. If we aren’t paying attention, we might reinforce compliance rather than true connection.
And then there’s the frantic offering of behaviors the way some horses cycle through everything they know, desperate for reinforcement, not out of joy, but because they don’t know what else to do. They’re trying to get it right.
Pressure and release asks the horse to move off pressure. But if we’re not careful, we can focus so much on getting the right reaction that we miss whether the horse is responding from confidence or fear. Are they learning, or are they simply avoiding the wrong answer?
Neither method is wrong. But both can fail if we aren’t truly seeing the horse.
Maybe I’m thinking about this more lately because I’ve been learning what it means to be neurodivergent in a world that doesn’t always make sense to me.
For a neurodivergent person, the world is overwhelming. Too loud. Too fast. Too full of expectations that feel impossible to meet. The unspoken rules of conversation, the weight of social niceties.
Someone asks, "How are you?" and I know the proper answer is "Fine, everything is good."
Even when it’s not. Even when I want to say, "I’m tired. The world is too loud today. I don’t know how to exist in it without feeling like I’m walking through a storm." But that’s not what people want to hear.
So I say fine.
Horses see through that in people. And so do I.
That’s why I notice the way their breath catches when they take a treat. The way they hesitate, just for a second, before following a cue. The way their eyes dart—not in defiance, not in disrespect, but in a silent question: Am I safe?
And I know that feeling.
I know what it’s like to be "easy to be around" because I’ve learned how to move through the world without making waves. I know what it’s like to have people assume I’m fine because I’ve learned to act fine. I know what it’s like to be seen as calm when inside, my mind is anything but.
And I know what it feels like to finally be seen for who I am, instead of who I’m pretending to be.
That’s what I want for these horses.
I don’t want them to just tolerate humans. I don’t want them to go through the motions of training without ever feeling truly safe. I don’t want them to comply because it’s easier than resisting.
I want them to trust. To feel safe. To feel like they don’t have to be anything other than who they are.
Because isn’t that what we all want?
So next time you’re with a horse, slow down.
Watch the way they breathe.
Feel the energy between you.
Notice the tiniest shifts in their body.
And ask yourself—are they truly with you? Or are they just surviving you?
Because seeing a horse means more than looking at them.
It means understanding them.
And that kind of understanding—it changes everything.