Listen to your Horse: Empathy over Ego

My beautiful Jade (photo credit Lisa Michelle Dean Photography)

I’ve been around horses since I was a kid—sweeping aisles, feeding hay, learning and re-learning what “inside leg to outside rein” really means. But it wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I got to have a horse of my own. Indy was a dream come true. Solid, confident, reliable. The kind of horse who makes you feel like you know what you’re doing, even when you don’t. She gave me so much more than I ever gave her. I got to love and spoil her all the way to just shy of her 29th birthday, and she left behind a legacy of pure gratitude in my heart.

Then came Jade. And oh, Jade… she flipped the script in every possible way—and taught me more than any textbook, clinic, or course ever could.

Where Indy was steady, Jade was sensitive. Where Indy gave me confidence, Jade made me question everything I thought I knew. She’s the kind of horse that makes you work for every inch of trust, not because she’s stubborn, but because she’s honest (and a little dramatic). And, as it turns out, I wasn’t quite ready to listen as deeply as she needed me to at the beginning.

I’ll admit it: I didn’t know how to hear what she was trying to say at first. I tried—I really did—but I doubted myself constantly. One day she’d be her curious, brave self, and the next, she’d unravel with a kind of anxiety that seemed to come out of nowhere. No consistent trigger, no obvious physical signs. Just a horse who looked ready to be your best friend in the stall and then suddenly couldn't function in the world.

She started her training later than most—almost six years old—but I was okay with that. As a warmblood, she was still maturing physically, and she blossomed between six and eight years old. Her initial training actually went surprisingly smoothly. She took to riding like a fish to water, so I brought her home pretty quickly. That’s when things started going sideways. She wasn’t difficult in the bridle, and she accepted a rider willingly—but something wasn’t right. She was very anxious and would unravel quickly - spinning and not wanting to work. I did what most would do, treated for ulcers, checked for dental problems, and checked for other physical issues. Then I handled it like a barn-sour problem, trying every method under the sun to help her build confidence.

Nothing made a lasting difference. Some days she’d toss her head or get worked up over a simple trail ride day. Other days she was calm and focused in work, even happy. While some people would assume it was just a mare being a mare, I couldn’t find a reason that made any sense. And when things got hard, the well-meaning voices around me started chiming in—telling me maybe I was being too soft, too green, too emotional. Maybe she was just “testing” me. Maybe I needed to push her through it.

And, regrettably, sometimes I tried. Not in a harsh way—but in that subtle way where you stop listening and start proving something instead. And sure, I could “win” a session. I could get her to work through something, finish on a good note, put a checkmark in the box. But the next day, she’d let me know: that wasn’t the way.

She’d start every warm up with frustrated signs that said, “I’m trying to tell you something and you’re not listening!” She never refused to be caught or acted out dangerously. But there was a tension in her body that told me something wasn’t right. She would turn away from me when I brought the saddle in. (And before you assume it was saddle fit - don’t worry, I thought of that too. I got 3 new saddles with this horse and did regular fittings)

I started keeping our sessions short. I gave her space when she told me she needed it. I called the vet—over and over. We ran tests, did full exams, took radiographs, ultrasounds, and nerve blocks. Every year, I hoped this would be the time we found something wrong. Every year, nothing conclusive. She was always perfectly sound. Still, we’d try injections in different areas—joints, back, SI—but nothing really changed in her behavior. We also relied heavily on therapeutic treatments, which she appreciated but didn't resolve it all either.

For six years, I walked this confusing, frustrating line of “she’s sound, but she’s not okay.” In some ways I began to believe that it was all just behavioral. Yet, through all of it, I kept trying to listen. I adjusted expectations. I let go of timelines. I had to mourn some of the competitive dreams I’d had when I bought her. But I stayed committed to figuring it out.

And finally—finally—this week, we found the answer.

We discovered an old, seemingly hidden injury from her youth. Calcification had built up around it with internal scarring that was overlooked for years. It wasn’t obvious. It wouldn’t have been noticed on most basic exams. But there it was. Hidden in plain sight. And in that moment, everything suddenly made sense. The ramping anxiety. The overreactions to feeling trapped. The up-and-down days. She wasn’t misbehaving. She wasn’t lazy. She was intermittently hurting. And she had been trying to tell me the entire time.

It’s not career-ending, thank goodness. We have a path forward for making her more comfortable. Now I can avoid things that would aggravate it. But more than anything, I feel…validated. Not just for me, but for her. She was communicating. I was right to keep looking. Right to not push. Right to trust her, even when the “evidence” said she was fine.

And of course, I feel guilty too. That it took so long. That I ever doubted her. That I ever let my ego whisper, “Just push through it.” But you know what? I’m also relieved. Because I didn’t let that ego win. Ultimately, I didn’t force her. I didn’t let competition or pressure override what I felt deep in my gut.

Because here’s the thing I’ve learned over and over again: horses don’t lie. They don’t fight unless they have no other option. They’re peace-seeking, cooperative beings by nature. And when they resist, it’s almost always because they’re confused, in pain, or scared. Not because they’re trying to make your life hard.

That lesson—really understanding that—has changed everything.

Jade turned me into a student again. I dove into learning more about horse behavior, not just the surface-level stuff, but deep studies of equine ethology, learning theory, and nervous system science. I started exploring all the different approaches to training—not to find “the right method,” but to understand the “why” behind shaping behavior. I wanted to speak the language, not just memorize the cues.

No, I didn’t reach the dressage milestones I once dreamed of. But what I got instead? A deeper relationship. A better understanding. A partnership that doesn’t rely on performance but on trust. And a new direction in my horsemanship that’s influenced my career. That’s priceless to me.

Jade didn’t just teach me to listen to her. She taught me to listen to myself—to trust my instincts, to honor the whispers instead of waiting for the yells. She made me softer, smarter, more curious. She led me down a new path I never expected, and I’m a better horsewoman—and human—for it.

So if you’re in a season with your horse where things don’t make sense, where nothing feels “wrong” on paper but something still isn’t right…listen. Keep listening. Trust your gut. Don’t let ego drown out empathy. It might take time. It might take years. But your horse is talking. You just have to be quiet enough to hear them.