Walking With Wilbur
Finding the strength of stillness and the courage to be seen at Horse Sense North
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 with guest Carmen Theobald — THE ROOTED HEART Psychotherapy and Counselling