Connection matters deeply to me. It always has.

And sometimes, when I feel it, sadness rises too. It reminds me of all the times I didn’t yet know what real connection felt like.

I’ve been circling this territory for a long time, sensing that something in me was building toward a new understanding. Today, that understanding finally landed in my body.

I participate in equine‑facilitated learning regularly to build what’s called relational muscle. Before entering the arena with a horse, there’s always a body scan. I’m asked to notice any part of my body where sensation feels strongest, breathe into it, and listen to what that part of my body might be trying to say.

This time, it was my feet speaking first. The message: keep moving. Not run, or move on, or adjust myself. Just… keep moving. Then my jaw chimed in: loosen. Not try harder or be stronger. Just loosen.

And then I met Simon — a miniature horse who embodied those exact messages. He occupied his space with gentle confidence. I found myself calling him a prince.

The title fit.

In fairy tales, princes do not spend their time convincing others of who they are or whether they belong. They just know. There’s a quiet confidence in that.

When I first entered the arena with Simon, I approached him the way I often approach unfamiliar situations: What should I be doing? What am I missing? What’s expected of me? Should I approach? Retreat? Stand still?

The answer was as clear and simple as the messages from my feet and jaw:
Do nothing.

Trauma Teaches Us That Connection Has Rules

My nervous system has been shaped by many experiences, and sometimes connection feels like a job. Safety comes from vigilance. I scan, anticipate, accommodate, perform, and try to manage outcomes.

Simon did not require me to do any of that. He didn’t ask me to be impressive, or entertaining, or to earn his approval. He asked nothing of me. He was just there. And in a way, that was his only request: be present, in this moment, with me. Oddly enough, that felt incredibly vulnerable.

I shared with the facilitator that intentional pauses are difficult for me. My nervous system tends to interpret pause and rest as threats. Somewhere along the way, I learned that worth was tied to productivity, and that doing nothing risked being seen as lazy, unproductive, or just not good enough.

To be fair, I have learned some forms of rest. I can sit beside a lake and watch the sun set. I can notice wildlife, feel the breeze, and take in the beauty of the moment. My nervous system is slowly learning that solitude can be peaceful.

But resting with another being, and being seen while doing absolutely nothing? That’s a different kind of vulnerability.

Freedom Can Feel Disorienting

During our conversation, the facilitator spoke about freedom. The arena offers exactly that: few instructions, no specific goals, and no right way to interact. But that level of freedom can be surprisingly uncomfortable.

One would assume that freedom feels good. But for a nervous system organized around just getting through the moment, freedom can feel very unfamiliar, even unsafe. Restrictions tell me who to be. Rules tell me what to do. Hypervigilance gives me a job. Pleasing others gives me a role. Even pain and sorrow can become familiar, comfortable terrain. When there are no walls, my body physically searches for a boundary.

But the expansiveness of freedom asks a completely different question:

Who are you when nobody is asking anything from you?

Standing in the arena, I could feel that question rising. Tell me where to stand. Tell me what to do. Tell me how to get this right.

It’s an awkward space to inhabit. I have been here before, but each time is its own unique threshold. Old thoughts and feelings resurface about the discomfort of idleness, the urge to do, and the instinct to control how I show up. Long-held doubts about trust and confidence revisit me. Beliefs I thought I had completely worked through months ago with another horse, Flurry, return in entirely new ways.

Remembering What We Forgot

In this work, I am witnessed not only by the horse but also by a human being. The facilitator observes how I show up again and again in the arena. This time, they pointed out certain things which I immediately recognized as old patterns resurfacing.

I stepped back when Simon came too close instead of holding my space. I had forgotten that I could set the boundary; that it didn’t need to be set for me.

I walked away feeling as if I was abandoning a precious moment, forgetting that the need to walk away was the precious moment. I was forgetting that Simon wasn’t feeling abandoned at all. That was my projection.

I held back from reaching out to hug him, worried that it might not be want he wanted. I had forgotten that he would know how to take the space he needed, set his own boundaries, and show me what was okay.

And then I remembered the facilitator’s words. In the forgetting we remember. And that is okay, because in the remembering we can choose differently.

While all that was running through my mind and body, Simon seemed entirely unconcerned. He wasn’t feeling all the feelings or asking all the questions. He moved when he wanted to move. He rested when he wanted to rest. He explored when curiosity led him somewhere new. He wasn’t looking for instructions on how to be Simon.

What he modeled wasn’t confidence in the traditional sense. It was self‑permission. Permission to exist, take up space, and to be curious. Permission to just be Simon.

When that truth settled within me, my body settled too.

Stuck or Moving

As the session continued, another moment of clarity emerged. When I am in survival mode my nervous system asks: What is wrong? What is the threat? What am I missing? What do I need to do?

But when my nervous system begins to experience true safety, it asks different questions: What is beautiful? What is here? Who is this being? What might be possible?

Neither orientation is naive or disconnected from reality. But one is organized around protection, and the other around connection. And this was not something I came to understand intellectually. It was something my body originally learned in my work with the horses and deeply remembered while standing with Simon.

My feet asked me to keep moving. My jaw asked me to loosen.

The facilitator shared that those somatic messages could hold any meaning I needed them to in my time with Simon. He reminded me that by staying in the moment and loosening my expectations, even by one percent, I could experience a shift.

He also reminded me that the muscle of being comfortable with just being is not built with one repetition, or two, or even three. It’s built by consistently showing up in the arena and remembering how to connect in ways that can’t be forced, faked, or performed.

It is the exact moment where quiet confidence becomes peaceful confidence.

The Real Muscle Memory Equine-Facilitating Learning Builds

As all good things do, the session came to an end. I was asked what I would take away from my time with Simon. My first instinct was to say him, but of course, that was not possible. What I could take was the lesson he offered:

I am worthy of peaceful connection.

Sitting with that realization brought tears to my eyes. Some part of me already knew it was true. But knowing it and feeling it are completely different things. To be worthy of connection free of judgement, evaluation, hiding, or earning—that is something precious, and something we are all deserving of. With Simon, I had moments where I did not have to think it. I felt it.

And that is a much bigger thing for my nervous system to receive.

This is the muscle memory equine‑facilitated learning builds; the memory of relational safety. The memory that connection can actually be peaceful.

As the facilitator shared, it is built the same way any muscle grows — through repetition:

Pick up a moment of joy.
Hold it.
Notice the discomfort.
Put it down.

Pick it up again.
Hold it a little longer.
Put it down.
Repeat.

Tiny exposures. Tiny permissions. Tiny moments of peaceful connection.

A moment of joy. A moment of rest. A conversation where someone truly sees me. A sunset over the water. A minute spent with a miniature horse who asks nothing of me. Then another. And another.

Eventually, my nervous system learns a new way of being. This is how connection becomes something I can feel, not just imagine. This is how muscle memory is built.

In my last session with Flurry, I learned that peaceful connection is possible even in the presence of big emotions. I learned how pausing can shift my perception and change what felt big and overwhelming. That experience showed me what peaceful connection feels like.

Simon’s gift added something new. While he is small, the message was incredibly large. It touched an old, core belief I’ve been carrying about my own worth. To have a miniature horse completely disrupt a lifetime of hyper-vigilance just by standing there and existing. It’s pure magic, grounded in beautiful biological reality.

His gift was not about how to connect with him, or even how to create peace. It was a living demonstration of what peaceful, confident presence actually looks like. And it’s a different confidence than the confidence of accomplishment that I have always known.

It’s the quiet certainty he carried into the arena. A confidence that said: I know I belong. I am worthy. I am worthy of peaceful connection.

How did a miniature horse teach me that?
The point is, he didn’t.
He simply occupied the space in a way that helped me remember it for myself.

Horse Sense North - Meet the horse partners here

If you’d like to read about the session that came before the lesson with Simon, where Flurry taught me about peaceful connection, you can find it here.

Subscribe now

“When we change the way we look at things, the things we look at change.”
 — Wayne Dyer

The Shadows We Create

I was reminded of a story today. One that showed me how easily our minds can turn something small into something seemingly big and terrifying.

The story was about a child who spent every night watching a giant shadow crawl across their bedroom wall. The shadow was long, jagged and had a huge claw-like arm. They were convinced the shadow was something far bigger and threatening than it actually was.

Every night, the terrified child curled up under the covers, their little heart beating fast, certain that something so large had to be dangerous. Night after night, they hid, hoping that if they stayed like that, very still and quiet, the shadow would just go away.

But one night, they were just too tired to continue hiding. So the frightened child reached out their little arm from beneath the covers and turned on the small lamp sitting on their bedside table. It was that light which showed exactly where the giant shadow was coming from.

The child was shocked to see that there was no big creature waiting to get them. There was no monster even in the room. In fact, it was just a reflection from the light on a tiny, hand-carved wooden toy that was sitting on the headboard of their bed.

The child realized that night that the shadow they had been so scared of, had only seemed so big because it had been hidden in the darkness; so far away from the light. But when the child finally brought the shadow into the light, close enough to see the truth, they realized that the thing the had feared wasn’t there to harm them at all. It was actually something entirely different. It was something meant to be held. There was no need to hide from it anymore.

When we consider this story, we realize that the same applies to us. We often let our fears and emotions, such as anger and shame, cast shadows in our lives that look much larger than they actually are. We believe that because a feeling or emotion is so intense, it must be wrong to feel it — therefore it must not be felt; to do so would be unbearable.

Often our viewpoint only changes when we have the courage to turn on the lamp inside us; to show up and be open about our vulnerability. When we do this, we can really look at the “monster” in front of us and discover that the shadows on the wall are not threats at all, but instead calls for closer connection.

Even within the largest things, there is a gentleness waiting to bring us back to centre— a gentleness that sometimes calls us to return to the places where healing might meet us again.

Returning to the Arena

We often want to go back to the places where we once experienced healing because something within us senses the possibility for a different experience waiting for us there. That’s why I returned to Horse Sense North.

The purpose of going back was not to visit horses. It was to continue building muscle memory—not physical muscle, but relational muscle. The kind that develops through courage, connection, compassion, and learning how to remain grounded within relationship. The kind that teaches how to show up in a different way, even while still harboring old fears and beliefs.

Before entering the arena, I shared with Carmen, the equine-assisted learning facilitator, that I had experienced some fear and uncertainty following my previous visit. During that visit, I was introduced to new tools around boundaries and consistency, but those tools still felt unfamiliar in my hands. I had not yet built the muscle for them.

That experience was followed by an emotionally vulnerable one a few weeks later — one in which I found myself carrying additional fear into this space. Fear around visibility. Fear around connection. Fear around being witnessed.

I wasn’t afraid of the facilitator. I wasn’t afraid of the horse. I was afraid of me. I wondered how I might show up given how deeply that experience had affected me.

That kind of openness also becomes part of the muscle memory. Learning that authenticity about my internal landscape does not automatically lead to rupture or failure or a need to put off the experience. It can feel that way though.

And so, despite all of that, I returned.

The Pause At the Window

Today, Flurry met me in the arena, and he taught me why showing up mattered.

Flurry is a large enough horse — capable of evoking awe, fear, vulnerability, and yet also gentleness, grounding, and return. In many ways, he feels like a living metaphor for life itself: immense, unpredictable, full of energy… but not inherently unsafe when approached from centre instead of overwhelm.

Standing beside him, I realized how much life can feel that way sometimes too — overwhelming, towering, and larger than our capacity to hold it. Sometimes the size of our shame, pain, fear, grief, or past experiences becomes so consuming that it pulls us completely out of the present moment.

Flurry and I walked around the arena together with no real destination and no pressure to do anything. Our only task, if it could even be called a task, was simply to be. Nothing more. We moved together like that for a while, until he suddenly paused at the arena window and looked outside. Instinctively, I looked too, wondering if there was something alarming beyond the window that had captured his attention.

But there was nothing. There was no threat or danger lurking. Just stillness.

And so I paused with him and gazed outside the window, taking in the landscape. It felt odd, and yet it didn’t. It felt necessary.

A pause. A widening. A reminder to orient outward and inward at the same time. To breathe in the pause before responding. To notice beauty before fear took over the whole landscape.

I took a slow breath in, and in that moment, I turned toward him and quietly said, “You’ve just taught me to pause in the moment, haven’t you?”

And somehow, he had.

What I found interesting was realizing how quickly my nervous system had searched for danger first. How automatically I had assumed that stopping must mean something was wrong. But Flurry was not responding to fear. He was existing within the moment and I joined him there.

That pause changed everything.

The Meaning Inside the Pause

Horses are bigger and energetically larger than our feelings. A horse does not judge our emotions or ask us to shrink them.

By pausing with Flurry, I began to understand that “big” does not always have to mean an overwhelming threat. Sometimes big can also mean stable ground. It can mean a steady presence, something strong enough to hold space without collapsing beneath the weight of emotion. I felt Flurry’s size, and I was not swallowed by it.

Flurry and I continued in the arena, walking and pausing, and as I stood with him scratching him gently, I began to feel something shift within me. The simple act of touch, presence without purpose or duty, just being close beside him — became deeply connective.

When a horse stands quietly beside you, it changes you. You feel its comfort and trust at a deep level — as though you are one of the herd. When Flurry was still in the moment with me, at ease, I felt that level of trust. I was so moved by this that tears rose in my eyes.

Flurry sensed the shift in emotion and the emergence of joy. He immediately turned his head toward me, and for a moment, looked directly at me. It was almost as though he was checking in to see if I was still okay. And once he realized I was, he calmly turned back and settled once more into the connection. There was something profoundly peaceful in that exchange.

Then came another realization.

As I continued scratching him, Flurry shifted his body slightly forward. At first, my instinct was to interpret movement as disconnection — as though movement meant he had enough and was leaving. But that wasn’t it. He wasn’t moving away from me. He was moving with the connection. And that distinction felt incredibly meaningful.

Flurry was adjusting himself so he could receive more of what he was enjoying — staying connected longer. The same way we shift positions in a chair while remaining fully engaged in conversation. This matters for someone working through boundaries, vulnerability, visibility, and relational safety, because movement in relationship can immediately feel like withdrawal, rupture, or loss.

Today I experienced that healthy connection allows for adjustment. I can reposition, shift and pause and still the connection feels easy — intact. It was as if a light shone on the shadow—something inside me just made a lot of sense.

Healthy connection allows movement. I can shift without abandoning another. I can pause without losing my way. I can cry, laugh, soften, reposition myself emotionally — and still remain connected, whole, and at peace.

That realization felt profound. More than anything I had felt in weeks.

What Peaceful Connection Feels Like

Today was not really about horses. It was about learning what peaceful connection feels like. It was about understanding that even in what appears to be big and overwhelming, beauty and gentleness can exist.

It was about understanding that healing may not always come from changing the external environment, but from learning how to return to ourselves within it.

Same horse.
Same arena.
Different experience.

The ‘big thing’, or my past, didn’t vanish, but my relationship to it shifted. By shifting my attention from fear and magnitude toward presence and relationship, the experience itself changed.

When I paused long enough I could see the beauty within the moment instead of becoming consumed by the size of my fear. I was able to have a completely different experience because I stopped focusing only on what felt so big and instead focused on the heart of the moment.

Carmen asked me what message I wanted to take away from the experience. And I think it was this:

See the beauty.

Appreciate the beauty that exists within the moment, no matter how large or overwhelming life appears to be.

Pause long enough to just be. Just flow. Just enjoy it.
Pause long enough to notice what’s there — the moment, the peace.
Pause long enough to return to yourself — to life, to joy.

When we fixate on the enormity of life, everything begins to feel impossible to hold. But if we pause — truly pause — the very things that once terrified us soften into beauty, gentleness, and steady ground.

The big things were never meant to undo us or paralyze us. They were just waiting for us to see them differently. And when we do, what we feel begins to change. And we change with it.

Subscribe now

If you are interested in reading more about equine-facilitated learning, connect here: Horse Sense North.

If you would like to read more about my personal journey with Flurry you are most welcome to use the link below.

“There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen.”
 — Rumi

Have you ever had that moment where you just knew something — felt it before you could explain it? That instinctive sense that some deeper part of you already understands. You don’t know how you know… but you know you know.

This way of knowing is called a felt sense — a kind of understanding the body carries. It’s a knowing without words or thoughts. An inner coherence that leads the way.

My therapist calls this inner knowing — the practice of slowing down enough to hear what my inner voice is trying to say, and trusting what comes in silence. My gut, my heart, and the stillness each speak differently ; they are the parts that know. That I don’t need to force inner clarity; I only need to notice it and let it guide me.

Horses invite this listening from within as well. They teach us to intentionally pause — to stop trying to think our way into connection or safety and instead feel it. Connection becomes clear and certain when we stop trying to protect it or manage the moment.

When we allow ourselves to simply be present and let a moment unfold, the inner knowing becomes audible — that voice Rumi invites us to listen for.

The Human: Listening to Breath and Body

I returned to Horse Sense North  to keep practicing this kind of listening in relationship. The horses don’t need my story. They respond to my nervous system. They meet what is present in me, here and now. And in that meeting, something inside me begins to settle, as if my body remembers it is safe.

People call it trauma healing. I suppose in many ways, it is, what this feels like with the horses is  a kind of praxis. Practicing feeling safe again in my body, in my boundaries, in connection without having to explain.

There is always a pause ;  a moment to arrive  before entering the arena to meet one of the herd. This time, Carmen, the equine-assisted facilitator and I began with several grounding breaths to settle, expanding breaths, and heart breaths — imagining my breath with love, flowing from my heart to another and back.

Each inhale and exhale was building muscle in listening and attunement.

As I walked toward the arena, the footing was not as solid in the snow. The mild winter weather had begun a quiet undoing, turning familiar ground uncertain. Each step forward felt like a choice.

As I drew closer, recalling lessons that had begun to take root. With a pony named Wilbur, emotional courage found in stillness; with a horse named Flurry, body-based trust, energetic awareness, and clarity across space. These were not ideas to think through, but rather things to feel.

I placed my mittened hand on the arena latch and paused. That familiar pull to look outward lingered; to anticipate, adjust, protect, and meet expectations not my own. And then I felt it — a small tightening in my chest, pressure in my jaw. Would I enter braced or as I was?

I remembered my therapist’s guidance from three days earlier: turn inward, notice, and trust that my inner compass was already pointing the way. I hadn’t yet fully learned how to listen in this way, but glimpses of calm clarity were beginning to arrive.

And then I heard it: the quiet guidance of my inner compass. I knew I didn’t need a prepared version of myself. I just needed to be. Instead of thinking through the connection, I focused on feeling it. I exhaled and let myself follow it through the door.

Flurry was already there, calm and composed. He went to the ground and rolled in the dirt, stretching his body out— a reminder of how to take up space. I felt it in my body before the thought arrived: Flurry was unhurried. Unbothered. Present.

He got up shaking the dirt off, and slowly returned to where Carmen and I were standing . Carmen inside the gate, and I outside, observing.

We completed a body scan. Nothing really stood out for me — just a slight tightness in my jaw. I sent it breath and awareness, receiving the message, “just be.”

I was then asked to look at Flurry and notice any shifts in my body. When I did, he lifted his head, sniffing the air, ears slightly forward. I felt the gentle pulse of his attention. Then he began nibbling at the gate chain.

At that same moment, the tension in my jaw returned — his fidgeting increased. My body was tracking what was happening outside of me.

Carmen invited me to visualize being with him and to stay with the sensation and ask it what advice it had. The message came clearly, “Don’t let his movement pull you from your center. Don’t let what’s happening around you decide what’s happening inside of you.”

As I stayed with that awareness, breathing slowly, the tightness in my jaw softened. Flurry’s fidgeting softened, too. My understanding shifted. This wasn’t about being responsible for him or letting his actions shape me. It was about staying with myself while he moved.

He was asking. I was listening.

The Horse: The Sense Knowing

I had been here before — in these moments of pause and presence. I knew the ways humans carried tension, anticipation, care, anxiety — all layered in a body that scans, waits, and adjusts.

This human had been here before. The space between us carried something new this time, something lighter. I attuned to it, letting our connection emerge naturally.

We began to walk together. Slow. Easy. My steps matched the human’s. No tension. No pulling. Just… moving. Every hoofbeat, every breath, calm.

Then we stopped. Standing. Quiet. Ground beneath hooves is solid. Breath steady. Space between us, safe. The air felt different — lighter, full of space that was ours alone.

Then the air shifted. A low rumble came from the side. Heavy. Rolling. Unfamiliar. I lifted my head, ears forward, eyes scanning. The vibration ran through the dirt beneath my hooves. The rumble grew louder. Heavier.

I ran toward the front of the arena, parallel to the road, tracking the sound. Body tall. Heart quickening. A huge truck — a monster truck. I tried to locate it, make sense of it — but it passed.

I needed calm. To be soothed. I nibbled at the clips on my coat hanging on the fence. Familiar. Grounding. Safe. Then the human’s voice reached me. Soft. Gentle. Not pulling me into safety — just letting me know she was still there.

Then Carmen’s voice came. Calm. Clear. Kind. She acknowledged the truck, its size, and me. Her energy held the space steady. I felt the steadiness reach me. My body recognized it immediately. Breath softened. Safe.

And then the pulse came from the human. Heart-breath. Flowing toward me. Warm. Full. Consistent. I felt it wash over me. Several times. Each pulse made the air lighter, the ground steadier, the space safer — calmer. I turned toward her. She stayed grounded, holding a calm space. I went closer. Could I trust her to follow her?

When I reached her, I paused. She didn’t move — space intact. I didn’t know who was leading this moment. So I asked in the way I knew how. I put my head down and gently nibbled at her right calf.

Okay, human. If you’re not going to lead, can you claim your space?

She placed her arm between us and exhaled a quiet “No, Flurry.” Kind. Firm. Clear. She claimed the space fully. Okay — good. I returned to safety. I can relax.

We moved along together. Step by step. Quiet. Unhurried. The space held. I could follow. I could trust.

When it was over, I stood calm. Quiet. The world outside continued, but inside me, everything settled.

Today. Less waiting. Less not knowing. More moving. More stillness. My hooves. Her steps. Our breath. Calm. More connected. More grounded energy.

She took up space — I took up mine. We didn’t have to stay together in the same space to stay connected. The space was full of connection — breath and movement.

There was no need to scan. No tension. No care beyond the moment. Just… here. Calm. Present. Peaceful. Whole.

The Human: Listening Inward

As someone who has constantly sought external signals to validate connection, it can be hard to turn inward and trust myself. However, that is exactly what works when we are with horses. Horses don’t validate humans; they meet us where we are. They help us to feel expanded not judged or evaluated.

They require us to simply be — fully present— and exist alongside another being without needing them to show up in a specific way. That’s how the connection remains real. For me, a shift happened from:

Does Flurry want to be here with me? to Do I feel safe being myself here?

A deeper lesson unfolded. It wasn’t only about how to hold space for another being; it was about recognizing and responding to whether I already held my own space. I moved from understanding connection between two beings to trusting myself to stay present, even when the space shifted, or Flurry acted independently.

In coexisting without tension, it became clear this was a mirroring of my own nervous system. The old patterns of leaning outward weren’t guiding me in the arena this time. My body had become the compass and my nervous system was responding exactly in the ways my therapist had shown me — noticing, honouring, and trusting my inner guidance. I could feel when to engage, when to hold, when to move, and when to set boundaries. The more I trusted it, the more Flurry did too.

Today, there is a deeper knowing inside me, and my body is already in conversation with it. When I slow down enough to feel my breath, I can hear that wordless guidance Rumi speaks about.

My breath is my anchor, and my anchor is my breath. No words needed.

Subscribe now

If you are interested in reading more about equine-facilitated learning, connect here: Horse Sense North.

If you would like to read more about my personal journey with Flurry, you are most welcome to use the link below.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
 — Rumi

The Relational Field

Rumi’s field is a kind of relational space. A way of being together rooted in presence, awareness, and connection. In this space, judgement falls away and we meet as we truly are. Real connection doesn’t happen while we are performing, managing ourselves, or trying to prove we have it all together. It happens when we are present.

For those of us with trauma histories, that presence is not easy. Trauma teaches our nervous systems to anticipate harm — to stay on alert, always scanning for cues of threat. Even calm, well-intentioned attention can feel unsafe.

The field Rumi refers to may be available, but it doesn’t always feel accessible. Entering it takes courage. It requires letting the body settle without bracing for what might happen next or pulling away.

The same is true with horses. In relational space with a horse, there is no judgement, no concept of right or wrong — only what is happening in the moment. Connection unfolds through nervous‑system regulation, presence, and attunement.

This shared field of awareness — relational space — is a felt one. Two nervous systems respond to each other’s breathing, energy, and sense of safety. The connection happens at a level far deeper than words. Long before we think about what’s happening, a rhythm forms.

Horses show us how to enter this field with them and how to recognize it with people too.

Trauma, the Nervous System, and Connection

Relational trauma taught me to stay on guard. I learned to expect inconsistency or withdrawal, and to scan for signs that I was safe. Over time, I stopped responding to what was actually happening and instead responded to what I feared might happen. It made relational cues harder to read and real presence harder to access.

Horses notice this immediately. They read our nervous system before our behaviour. Any subtle pressure for them to respond, reassure, or to connect registers in their bodies. As prey animals, they often respond to that pressure by moving away.

Connection grows in small moments — tiny shifts and brief pauses. Trauma makes it easy to miss them while the system is bracing for rejection. Safety starts to feel conditional. If they respond a certain way, I’m okay. If they don’t, I’m not.

Horses don’t respond to conditional safety. They respond to clarity, groundedness, and consistency.

That’s why relational work with horses has been so powerful for me. Again and again, they teach my nervous system — in a gentle, wordless way — that safety doesn’t have to be earned and that connection can exist in presence alone.

Boundaries in the Field

My visit to Horse Sense North began with a conversation about our heart, brain, and nervous system being in sync or out of sync. We discussed how quickly these shifts happen, how they communicate subtly, and how we sometimes override them.

A heart‑rate variability monitor made those shifts visible: green for calm, blue for settling, and red for alert. A simple change in tone could move me from green to red, registering in my body before my mind processed it. With intention and breath, I could return to calm. Seeing the monitor confirm what I felt was validating. My body was telling the truth — and the horse would feel that truth too.

When we arrived at the arena, the wind was blowing, and snow pellets and debris were hitting the metal siding. Flurry, a horse waiting inside, was unsettled, mouthing the chain on the arena gate.

Carmen, the equine-assisted learning facilitator, explained that nibbling was a self-soothing fidget and showed me how to set a boundary around nibbling with a steady hand, creating space.

When I stepped into the arena, Flurry tested me immediately. For the first time in a long while, I held my boundary without hesitation or fear of losing connection. I simply said no — with my body and my actions. He respected it.

We walked together for a while, adjusting to each other’s rhythms and space. When I entered his space and he did not want me there, he’d either try to nibble or leave. I responded with awareness.

When a sudden noise startled us both and Flurry bolted, I grounded myself by breathing and staying in place. He returned to the space quickly, and we co-regulated. That moment showed me that storms will come, inside and outside, but we can return to calm. Presence doesn’t require more than presence. We can stay connected through the disruption. We can find our way back.

By the end of the session, I understood something that I’d never fully embraced: boundaries are necessary. I’d worried they would create disconnection, yet with Flurry, the opposite happened. The clearer I was, the safer he felt, and the safer he felt, the more connected we became. Boundaries are clarity, and clarity creates safety. Trust begins with the courage to say: This is my space. This is what I need.

Energetic Boundaries

On another day, I returned to the farm, and a younger horse noticed me from a distance. I was standing far enough away from the pen but close enough to notice him lift his head, look toward me, and make a few soft nods.

I didn’t take those gestures as a greeting in the human sense or an invitation to come closer. It was more: I see you, I’m aware of you, and you’re not a threat. He returned to grazing. Nothing more happened or needed to. We shared the same attentional field; a moment of mutual awareness across distance, co‑presence without contact. I didn’t need to do anything; I was seen.

When boundaries are respected and attention is regulated, trust arises. In that trust, vulnerability and connection happen — the field Rumi refers to unfolds naturally.

Flurry and the Space Between

Before entering the arena, Carmen talked about the heart’s electromagnetic field and the different layers of energy around horses’ bodies and how they help us to notice boundaries. Flurry was sensitive to these invisible layers. Subtle shifts in his body language told us about his level of comfort, curiosity, or tension.

The goal of this session was to explore my relationship with Flurry through the lens of the layers, moving back and forth and responding to his cues.

As I stepped toward him, I watched for the smallest signs: an ear twitch, a shift of weight, a softening of breath, or nibbling at the gate. I felt the layers in my own body as much as I could see them in his. Stepping inside his field felt like entering a delicate web. It emphasized how much my energy mattered.

Sometimes he approached; sometimes he paused. When he pushed into my space, I held my boundary with clarity . A simple no reinforced by my body. He respected it. He tested again, and each time I stayed clear, the connection deepened. The space between us felt safer. When Flurry realized the boundaries were solid, he relaxed as though to say, okay, you’ve got me.

Connection can happen at a distance. Flurry didn’t want me close all the time. He wanted space — and when I honoured that space, he trusted me. Giving space didn’t withdraw connection; it actually created it.

There were moments of uncertainty — was I reading him correctly? Should I move forward or step back? But each time I grounded myself, shifting from thinking to being, the uncertainty dissolved. I could feel his energy shift and mine in response. Learning to attune in real time was both learning and unlearning.

I also noticed that my initial impulse was to always give more space than Flurry needed. But in staying attuned, what he needed became clear. We co-created a space of calm and safety — Flurry’s need to self-soothe lessened.

At one point, he circled widely, creating a large space. I might have interpreted that as withdrawal if I hadn’t understood energetic boundaries. Instead, I stayed present and recognized it as needing space. Without me reaching or pressuring him to return, he slowly came back — he felt safe enough to choose closeness. By the end, we shared spatial closeness without any signs of anxiety. That’s connection — that’s the field.

All beings want connection, but the space they need differs — and my own need for space is valid. Flurry taught me that when I am clear, he can trust me. When I hold boundaries, he can relax. When I stay grounded, he can soften. When I give space, he can connect.

What emerged from this experience is this: trust comes from boundaries. Safety comes from clarity. Connection comes from space. In that space — the space in-between — the field appears. It arises when we hold clear boundaries, honour space, regulate ourselves, and meet one another, as we are, without performance.

The Field of Connection

One of the most important things Flurry taught me is that I can’t make a moment of connection happen. I can only show up in a way that makes it feel safe.

With horses, regulation comes before relationship. It starts in the body, not the mind. Before entering the pen, I learned to check in with myself — notice where I was tight or holding — and settle my body first. Flurry felt that immediately.

Even the slightest internal shift created the opportunity for tension between us. When I softened and eased back, Flurry did too. He wasn’t responding to what I wanted — he was responding to how regulated I was. My attention needed to be open, with no expectation or pressure. Just space for both of us to be as we were.

And when the moment ended, it ended. There was no need to hold on to it or make it mean something more. The session was not about interpretation; it was about noticing. Was he settled? Was I? That was it.

Flurry mirrored a relational skill I have spent years trying to understand: we don’t have to reach for relationships. When we are present, we can simply just be.

When I first began the Horse Sense North journey, I thought I was learning about how horses interact with humans — that I’d build self-confidence with a few practical tools. What is unfolding is far deeper. I am learning about myself: how I show up, how I hold space, how I set boundaries, and how I allow connection.

The field Rumi names is relational and embodied. It emerges when we choose presence over performance and hold boundaries with clarity and consistency. The field deepens when space is respected and when the nervous system feels safe enough to settle.

Space and boundaries are not obstacles to connection — they create trust. That is the foundation of connection. That is the field.

And it is created, moment by moment, through the courage to hold space — mine, yours, and what’s in‑between.

Subscribe now

If you are interested in reading more about equine-facilitated learning, connect here: Horse Sense North.

If you would like to read more about my personal journey with Wilbur (the pony who met me first) you are most welcome to use the link below.

Answering the Invitation

For weeks, therapy had been pulling threads I had avoided for years. Threads tied to self-worth, visibility, and the quiet ache of feeling that I didn’t matter. I had lived as though strength meant holding everything together, staying in control and being productive.

But I was beginning to understand that real strength required the opposite: authenticity and vulnerability. The bravery to stop waiting for a someday version of myself and arrive as I already am.

Courage isn’t something you build first and then act from. It grows because you act — because you’re willing to be real. In that honesty, you don’t find courage; you become it.

After sitting with this in therapy, I knew I needed to experience this truth in my body, rather than just thinking about it in my mind.

A therapist’s podcast with Horse Sense North led me there; a place where healing is felt as much as it is understood.

I arrived with two intentions: to enhance my self-worth and to reconnect with my authentic self — the one who had been there all along.

Preparing for the Session

To prepare for the session, I completed a few journal prompts designed to help surface my expectations and fears:

• How could I be more like the horses—mindful, grounded, and in the now—without worrying about what might go wrong?

• If they turned their focus away — could I stay with connection instead of slipping into the fear of rejection?

I felt a great sense of reverence at the idea of entering the arena with nothing in mind — just a horse. Knowing I could learn something I couldn’t yet articulate — lessons found in presence rather than explanations  made me feel humbled.

Usually, I approach new situations  slowly, observing from the edges of safety. I hoped to face the unfamiliar in true presence — a shared energy of being seen, felt, and acknowledged.

That was what I carried with me as I walked toward the arena.

Meeting Wilbur

We began with centering. As I settled into my breath, the first sensations surfaced: a tightness in my jaw, a heaviness in my head, and a deep ache in the center of my chest. When I breathed toward them, they loosened and lengthened, as if something inside me was finally stretching awake.

Unmistakably, a message emerged: Use your voice.

As I continued grounding, the soles of my feet planting firmly into the dirt. Another message followed, steady and clear: Walk forward , not in fear, but in courage and confidence.

Wilbur had already entered the pen — a small, twenty-year-old pony with an exuberant spirit. He dropped to the ground and rolled in the dirt with unapologetic joy, a playful ceremony of presence. He wasn’t large, but he was steady, sure, and deeply alive.

When Carmen (the equine-assisted learning facilitator) stepped into the pen, he was relaxed and content beside her. When it was my turn, I felt unsure. Wilbur seemed to carry time differently; he was in no hurry to reveal anything. Walking into his space felt like entering a knowing I could sense but not yet read.

I didn’t want to overwhelm or crowd him, so I stayed outside his space, and he stayed outside mine. Two quiet bodies, both waiting to see what would unfold.

I eventually offered my hand. He sniffed it and brushed it gently, acknowledging me with a surprising softness. I asked, “Wilbur, would you like to go for a walk?” His ears flicked toward me   attentive ,  but he didn’t move. I walked a short loop on my own, letting him be.

As I walked, my hand found my heart. A reminder: Space is not rejection. Distance isn’t the end of connection; it is just where we were.

When I returned, he met my hand again. I let myself touch him and we moved together  in a quiet, tentative rhythm ;  maintaining space, yet not pulling away. He nudged me once, then again. Not enough to push me off, just enough to say, I feel you here. I chose not to over-interpret it; if he wanted distance, he would have created it. He didn’t.

At one point, he wandered to his blanket hanging on the fence and tapped it. I wondered if I had already lost his interest , or if I wasn’t offering whatever it is horses respond to. But when he returned, those thoughts disappeared . This dance of closeness and space continued between us.

When I joked that he was being stubborn. Carmen gently offered, “What if he’s insecure?” I considered it and then the opposite: “What if he’s actually sure?” He was simply being honest, his presence unassuming.

Later Wilbur stretched his neck on the fence toward Carmen, glancing between us. “Maybe I’m boring him,” I said, almost apologetically.

Carmen shook her head gently. “That’s the beauty of horses. They can just be. He has the entire space he could wander to, but he’s sticking close to you.”

Wilbur was choosing to be  there   in that moment. Something in me softened. Horses don’t stay out of politeness. They stay because they feel safe.

Our connection deepened. He nuzzled me, mouthing the air as though speaking his own quiet language. I knelt beside him in the dirt. Carmen asked, “If you could say something to him right now, what would it be?”

I said, softly, “I see you, Wilbur. I feel you. I’m here. I respect your space and this connection. Thank you for being here with me.”

Something shifted. A felt closeness — mutual and real. This space was safe.

Connection in Stillness

Wilbur never followed me across the arena, but he never left me either. Whenever I created space, he matched it. When I reached toward him, he reached back. It was a connection built in moments, not movement.

I realized my urge to move, to adjust, was my old pattern emerging — to flee. But when I chose to stay and be still, he stayed with me. Stillness became the place where the connection lived.

Near the end of our time together, Wilbur made a soft vocalization — a gentle offering. It reminded me of something a friend once said. Using your voice doesn’t mean being louder. It means reflecting your truth—even if it’s quiet—even if it’s the only voice speaking.

I thanked Wilbur.

During our debrief, Carmen shared that Wilbur arrived years ago deeply unsure of himself — insecure, but determined to be himself. I understood that. We met each other in that place.

She also shared with me something comforting. Wilbur was never trying to leave the interaction. His nudging, his playful gestures, and watchful eyes  were all engagement. More of that, he was saying. Stay with me.

Walking With What Remains

Horses don’t reflect how we think; they reflect how we are.

That mirroring taught me that what we think another needs isn’t always the truth. Tuning into each other is how we know  if leading or simply showing up with confidence is desired.

The cadence of mutual caution and willingness, softness and certainty, and vulnerability and courage, became the heartbeat of our time together. Wilbur reminded me that connection is often about being with the uncertainties and certainties in the presence of another.

He echoed the lessons my therapist had been gently reminding me of: I don’t need to always be on the go, to leave, or to do something. Stillness — making space — is not emptiness or stagnation. It is presence.

Wilbur showed me we can pause, exchange energy, and simply be together , connected without action.

In his stillness, I felt the power of making space. He showed me that softness and presence were strength; that I didn’t need to be big to be seen, to be felt. And that my voice ,  even if it’s quiet ,  can be heard.

When the session ended, I felt both gently undone and newly assembled. Not transformed, exactly — more like something in me had been acknowledged in a way I didn’t have to earn. I left feeling humbled, grateful, and deeply felt by a being with no words, yet more honesty than most conversations ever hold.

And I knew I would be back ; to keep learning how to meet presence with presence, and how to walk forward with courage.

In truth, I never walked with Wilbur ;  not in the literal sense. But ‘walking with him’ was never about footsteps. It was about walking with his presence, with the steadiness and the mirror he held up to my own hesitancy and hope.

It was walking with what he taught me; that courage can be found in uncertainty, softness can be sure, and that stillness can be connection. These are the steps I carry forward — the steps inside me.

And in that way, I will walk with Wilbur for a very long time.

• Carmen Theobald (she/her), Founder and Director — Horse Sense North

• Podcast: Boundaries with guest Carmen Theobald — THE ROOTED HEART Psychotherapy and Counselling

Boundaries

Boundaries with guest Carmen Theobald — THE ROOTED HEART Psychotherapy and Counselling

Subscribe now