The Child Within

Horses have an uncanny ability to bring up strong emotions in us. If we are not plagued by frustration, we are overcome with joy. If there isn't steam coming out of our ears, there is love spilling from our hearts. Perhaps this is the intrigue of horses, they push us to look at ourselves, especially the dreaded dark side, more times than we care to count, but they also fill us with love. Joy, compassion and gratitude are frequently present, but so are anger, frustrating and sadness.

And then there is fear.

Fear is one of the most common emotions in equestrians all over the world. If you are feeling it, well, so is someone else. We all have fear at times, and we should, as fear is healthy, it keeps us safe. And sometimes spending time with horses can be dangerous. But unfortunately fear wants more than just to warn us, it wants to take over. So when you notice that fear no longer sits in the passenger seat of your life, but is in your lap, trying to take over the steering wheel, it's time to take a closer look at it.

A client contacted me recently, wanting to better understand and eventually control her fear of riding and handling horses at the riding school where she rides once or twice week. She had thought she had put her fear behind her, but after her teacher was involved in an accident, fear showed up again, this time stronger than ever.

I always commend students and clients who approach me with this subject matter. Admitting you have fear is the first step in the long process of recovering from it. Fear is important and should always be listened to carefully. What is fear's message?

In my client's case it took a while before we arrived at the very heart of the matter. We talked about where and when fear enters the picture. What triggers it? What behaviors does my client engage in to feel "secure"? How can she help herself when fear is present?

Our discussion took us into many topics such as the fear of losing face with your peers, feeling insecure about your abilities, hating the element of surprise and the feeling of foreboding chaos which has my client observing her surroundings neurotically for the slightest disturbance that could trigger a reaction from the horse.

"I feel like a little girl, when I'm afraid," my client said. "It is crazy. I feel so capable elsewhere in my life, but at the barn I'm lost and insecure. I don't trust myself at all, especially now that my regular teacher is not there."

"How long has fear been present in your equestrian hobby?" I asked.

"Good question," my client said thoughtfully. "Probably always."

I felt that we were getting to something important, so I pressed on.

"When did you first start riding?" I asked. "Tell me about that time."

My client was silent for a second. Then she said: "I was eight and there was zero instruction. I was literally plopped on a pony and pushed in with the others. If the ponies didn't go, the teacher chased us with a whip. I was a very shy and timid child and was scared shitless the whole time, it was so out of control and I had no idea what I was doing."

She was silent for a moment. "Oh my goodness," she then said.

Yes, oh my goodness, indeed. This was the defining moment. This is when the twine started to unravel, when Pandora's box opened, then the seas split.

"I have carried that experience I had as a little girl with me since it happened. For years. It is my identity, how did I not see this before this moment? No wonder I feel like a little girl at the barn, I AM the little girl I once was."

This is not the first time a client or student of mine revisits the very beginnings of her equestrian life and discovers the key to her problems in the present. For example, a few years back a student of mine was having trouble riding her mare in the arena.

"She just moves like she is in molasses. Or worse, she stops and won't go. I don't want to force her, that's not my style. I mean I can ask, but I'm not going to start kicking and whipping her." She sighed. "It drives me mad. And all I have to do to get her to move is to leave the arena. If we were in the field right there, she goes beautifully." She pointed at the field next to the arena.

And she was right. We tried everything, correcting her seat, finding her inner power, clicker training, which all worked for a split second and improved the situation. But in the end, her horse just retreated back to sulking in the middle. The worse part, from my student's perspective, was that the mare would go with another rider.

"It's me, I see that, but I can't fix it," my student said with tears in her eyes. I could see how frustrated and even ashamed the mare's owner was. Nothing seemed to work.

Until I asked the right question.

"Tell me about your riding history. When did you start riding and how was it for you, when you started?"

Turns out my student was a very quiet and painfully shy child. When she started riding at 8, she never was able to get the ponies to move. So she spent most of the lesson standing in the middle of the arena, where the teacher either ignored her or shamed her, after which she was chased with a whip.

"It was horrible, I felt like I was such a failure."

Wow, and does that remind you of something that is happening now, this very moment, with your mare? Here you are, yet again, in the middle of the arena, on a horse that refuses to move.

It is amazing how our childhood experiences affect the way we are as adults. As children we are so open to everything, so vulnerable and unassuming. This is where and when our values are made, our identities are molded. And it is even more amazing to witness the way horses see this trauma in us and bring us to look at it, over and over again, as if they are trying to help us resolve it, once and for all.

I was a tough tomboy as a child. Sensitive inside, but determinate and energetic outside. When I started riding, it took my teacher about five minutes to figure me out. I was given one of the biggest horses in the barn to ride, a lazy Finnish horse called Viri. I was just a wee little thing, barely 10 and eager to please my teacher. I didn't know how to ride, but I knew that if I got the enormous gelding to go, my teacher would praise me. And boy did she!

From that moment on my fate was sealed. I was given the laziest, most stubborn horses to ride and each time I rode it was like going to war. And each time it worked. By the time I was in my teens, I had the reputation of being the one to get any horse to go. I learned to kick them effectively, and not only that, but hit them, too.

Took me a while to recognize that child manifesting in me and work her out of my system. When you have always been the one who gets the last word with any horse, there is a lot of anger, pride and ego to sift through before you arrive at a neutral place. Just like my client's fear was handed to her on a silver platter, I was handed the identity of a tough rider, one that didn't take no for an answer.

You might think that these childhood experiences are not that important, but they are. We may carry them with us in our bodies, our very cells, for the rest of our lives. We tuck them in to the back of our minds where they become values and belief systems, identities and thought patterns. Understanding their power is crucial. And, if we do not tear down the walls we have build around those childhood experiences, they will continue to manifest in our lives over and over again.

So, I ask you now, what is the unwanted emotion you continuously run into with horses? Is it fear? Anger? Insecurity? Shame? Inadequacy? Something else?

Did you have an experience with horses when you were a child? Go back in time and remember your first ride, your first teacher, your first horse. What were you feeling? Can you trace your way back to the heart of the heart, the core of the core, of who you are with horses today?


"What we remember from childhood we remember forever - permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen." ~Cynthia Ozick

Safely Afraid

“A cat bitten once by a snake dreads even rope.” ~Arab Proverb

Tonight when I drove to the barn the sun was just setting behind the mountains. Little Love had been outside in the morning and I was planning to spend the evening hanging out with her in the arena, working on some collection at liberty. But when I got to the barn, the arenas were occupied with riders who were busy jumping and longing and practicing dressage tests.

“What should we do?” I asked Little Love while helping her with her daily stretches, a ritual she loves to do.

Little Love stuck her nose out of her stall window and sniffed the cold air, looking into the horizon, the way she always does when she wants to get away.

“Let’s go out,” she said. “On the trails.”

I looked out. Dusk was settling over the landscape and in just over a half an hour it would be completely dark. Many people from our barn ride in the dark, going for walks in the field with mere moonlight as their guide or wearing headlamps for better visibility. Little Love and I were not one of those people. Not until now. I ran to the tack room, picked up the saddle and bridle. I felt a nervous tingle at the pit of my stomach, but I told myself to trust Little Love. She wouldn’t suggest something as crazy as a ride in the darkening forest unless she knew we could handle it.

When Little Love and I met four years ago, she was one of the most fearful horses I had ever dealt with. Every time I rode her in any of the arenas she would bolt from the slightest stimulus; a crack of a branch, the sound of the wind whistling through the roof beams, a bird flying overhead, a stone bouncing off her own hoof, another horse snorting. Everything and anything could set her off and she would run from underneath her rider in a crazed panic. She would race to the gate or the door in terror, her heart pounding in her chest and her focus lost. And not only that; once she was frightened, it was impossible to calm her down; it was as if fear itself was her nemesis, eating away at her very soul.

Riding on trails was not much better. In fact, if you attempted to ride alone, it resulted in disaster. A leaf falling from its tree, a sudden gush of wind, a dog romping in the field a hundred yards away; all this could ignite a fleeing reflex. Within seconds Little Love would rear, turn around and head home at ever increasing speed.

Riding with other people was helpful, but not easy. In the arena Little Love would refuse to turn, trying to follow the other horses. On trails she would crowd her trail partner and jig nervously on his or her tail until the usually calm horse was also in a state of flux. Needless to say we weren’t very popular.

Before long I was at my wits end trying to help this horse find some kind of peace. I wanted to show her the world was not such a scary place. After struggling for months, I discovered the bitless bridle. It was a breakthrough. Or perhaps it would be best described as a flicker of light at the end of the tunnel. Suddenly Little Love, who would never ever willingly go to the far end of the indoor arena, would agree to passing by the back door. Granted, she was still on her toes, but there was a slight shift in her behavior.

Encouraged by the positive results of the new bridle, I started to experiment. I rode with no rein contact whatsoever. I took Little Love’s tack off at the “scary” end of the arena and let her loose. At first she would run away as fast as she could, but soon would start to linger and investigate. I would bring her into the arena in a halter and walk her around or longe her. If she bolted while haltered, I would simply let her go. Soon I abandoned all tack, letting her loose at the door to give her freedom to choose. I even tried riding with just a rope around her neck.

This all resulted in another shift in her behavior. She was still frightful, but rather than going completely out of her mind with fear, she would run for a short while and then slow down and stop, as if surprised by the outcome.

In the past, Little Love had been physically punished for spooking; the previous trainer had for years forced her deep and low with draw reins and harsh bits, she had kicked her with spurs, hit her with the whip in attempt to teach her to stop fleeing from scary things. She had also advised Little Love’s owner to behave this way.

It took me a while, but I finally realized something profound; Little Love’s biggest fear was not of the external stimulus, the imagined beast she thought would jump on her or the scary unknown creature possibly lurking in the shadows. What was far worse than anything else she could imagine was the forceful pain that for years had followed her “fright”.

She was afraid of being afraid. In other words, she was afraid of the state of fear itself, because in her mind fear equaled pain. It was almost like a mathematical equation, always true, never changing. In fact, the fear of pain was so etched into her nervous system that even when there no longer was pain, the fear of pain still lived strong in her mind. She couldn’t shake it away.

This in mind I took a whole new approach to the situation. The more Little Love was afraid, the less I tried to control her. This meant that when I rode her in the dreaded indoor arena and there was a loud noise at the far end of the arena, I threw the reins on Little Love’s neck and grabbed her mane, giving her free will to bolt off (obviously I had to ride alone). At first, she would run like always, but soon took off only to stop a few strides later. Once she stopped and turned her head so that I could see the white of her left eye. As she looked at me in surprise, I swore she saw me for the very first time for who I was: not her enemy, but someone who wanted to be on her side.

I also spent hours with her in the arena, observing her in liberty. It didn’t take long for her to understand the control she had when there were no humans aboard. Soon she was strolling down to the far end and rolling, as if there never had been a thing to fear down there. I was astounded.

It was obvious that the less tack Little Love had on her head to ensure human control and the further away the humans were, the less fearful she was. The amount of human contact was directly connected to the amount of fear she experienced.

This observation was sobering. I realized that deep down Little Love was more confident than I had ever imagined, but humans, in their attempts to control her, had somehow managed to create this terrified animal. Perhaps in the beginning, as a young horse, she had merely been alert, but after being punished for this trait she had developed what I now called “the fear syndrome”. Many horses get punished for fearful, insecure behavior and a good percent of them have known to go into a state of learned helplessness to protect themselves from the pain. Of course this is exactly what most humans are looking for; a dull, desensitized animal who will not budge even if a bomb exploded next to them. But Little Love was not one of those horses. Instead she had created her own way of dissociating from a scary situation: running away.

I felt relieved to have found an answer, but completely overwhelmed with my findings. Matters were not made easier by another observation, which was that Little Love really wanted nothing to do with me (or any other human for that matter) if she had a choice. When I let her loose in the arena, she would move to the other side and turn her bottom at me. By default. The only way I could get her attention was with food, but there was no real trust there. Without food, I was nothing. And who could blame her?

Today I am filled with wonder for my friend who has come such a long way from those days of complete and utter panic. Or is it I who has come a long way? This change did not happen overnight. It is the result of a plethora of things: Hours of liberty work and spending time with Little Love doing nothing; long walks in the fields; letting go of my own ideals and goals, letting go of traditional methods and understanding the true meaning of freedom, letting Little Love have choices, opinions, emotions; educating her owner, and making sure Little Love gets out of her stall as much as possible even if it means standing with her in the pasture in pouring rain to keep her company when all the other horses are kept in. The list goes on.

The horse I met four years ago is still there, but there is also another horse present, a strong and opinionated and bold animal who may always remain cautious, but who is also so intelligent, so amazingly perceptive and calm. Only when I read back on my blog do I realize how far we have come. I wish I had started writing about my experiences years earlier, to truly see the miles that have been traveled.

Little Love can now be ridden into the far end of the indoor arena without a problem, but it no longer matters to me, for I no longer ride her in the arena. I spend more time with her on the ground than anywhere else. When we ride, we ride trails and tonight we are doing it in the dark.

We take off on our trail ride in the setting sun. Little Love is alert, curious. I walk her in hand for the first ten minutes. She stops once and stands very still. I ask her if she wants to go back, if the falling darkness is too much for her to bear, but she decides to continue walking. Finally, I climb on her back so we can do a short trot. She trots calmly, but with her head up and eyes scanning the dark fields. I don’t touch the rein and keep my legs off her sides. She looks to the left and registers the cows in the field; she looks right at the pile of wood that looks different in the shadows of the approaching night. We walk and I get off to walk with her. She is alert, she is alive, she is brave. I get on again, we canter and do some more trot. She wants to trot more than usual and I let her. Her eyes are on sticks when we pass the small, abandoned cottage with dark, ominous windows. We turn right at the fork and head home. The streetlights reach us half way down the last field. I get off to walk again, Little Love is now relaxed. It is almost pitch dark when we get back to the barn, but we stop to graze for a moment, feeling safe in the all-enveloping darkness.

Fear no longer equals pain and this has made all the difference in Little Love’s life. Through several trials and errors she now knows that she can be what I call safely afraid. We still run into unexpected situations, but so far our mutual trust has helped us conquer even the scariest events (like ten black and white calves with bells around their necks running after us or trailriding in the dark!) Fear is no longer a disaster, an abyss from which there is no return.

I can’t tell you how much I have learned about the pathology of fear in the past few years. Fear must never be overlooked or belittled, neither in humans nor in animals. Who knew that one fearful horse could teach one person so much about life; empathy, patience, perseverance, faith, love – and change? And it’s far from over; my education continues. And while I am liberating myself from my past, I hope Little Love continues to liberate herself from hers. 

~K

“We see our horses as frightened animals prone to flight, but often it is we humans who have laid the foundation for this behavior by the totally unnatural way we keep and interact with them.  Could it be that the loss of their own world has made our horses so easily startled and fearful?” - Imke Spilker in Empowered Horses

I touch the subject of fear in some of my previous blogs as well, if interested please visit “Bombproof” from Oct.4, “Letting go” from Dec 28, 2009 and “Prince of Fear” from Aug 21, 2009