Easing Fear and Tension Through Connection with Horses

There’s a certain kind of fear that doesn’t always show up as panic or tears—it’s the quiet kind. The kind that lives in our muscles, in the way our breath gets shallow when we feel watched, or how our body freezes when conflict arises. This fear often disguises itself as rigidity, control, withdrawal or a gnawing sensation we hide from others and ignore. Fear can be so prevalent that it becomes comforting and familiar, like an old pair of boots that slide on with no resistance. For many of us, especially those who have experienced trauma, it can feel safer to live disconnected from the body—somewhere above or outside of it and often in our minds while we try to “figure it out”. But healing, I’ve come to learn, invites us back in.

For me, that invitation has come from horses.

When I first began working with horses, I didn’t realize just how much fear and rigidity I carried in my body. I came into it hoping for connection—wanting to ride with ease, feel attuned to the horse, and maybe even find a bit of peace. But instead, I felt tense, overthinking every movement, holding my breath without realizing it and perceiving my experience through fear. My seat was stiff in the saddle, and even when I stood next to the horse, there was a subtle bracing happening in my body—like I was waiting for something to go wrong.

What I wanted was trust and presence. But what I was bringing was control and guardedness.

It became clear that the very thing getting in the way wasn’t the horse—it was the part of me that lived in a constant state of fear. Or more accurately, the protective parts I had been carrying for years. The horse kindly revealed them. It just took me time to understand the exchange that was happening between us.

Just the other day, I arrived for training at the ranch. I felt tense—my mind was spinning with things I had to do that day, and my body felt tight, like I had been holding my breath all morning, as if that was the only thing I could control. I didn’t think much of it at first but, did have some awareness of the tension I was holding. I went about brushing the horse and preparing for our lesson. But as soon as I stepped into the round pen, I could feel the disconnect. The horse was distracted, a little resistant, and didn’t seem interested in my cues. I caught myself trying to push through; holding my breath, limiting motion in my body while trying to provide guidance, and an overall rigidity in the saddle. But deep down, I knew—I wasn’t fully present because my body wouldn’t allow it.

My trainer had started my session with breath work and reminded me throughout the hour to reconnect with my breath. So I paused. I took a breath and checked in with myself. That’s when it hit me: I was asking the horse to be attuned to me, but I hadn’t yet attuned to myself.

I softened my body, slowed my movements, and let go of the need to do it “right.” Almost immediately, the horse responded—their body relaxed, and they began to mirror my energy. It was subtle, but powerful, I was embodied and providing guidance. By the end of our time together, I felt calmer, more grounded, and more connected—not just to the horse, but to myself. It reminded me again why I keep coming back to this work. Horses don’t need words; they listen to our truth. And that day, when I realized what was happening inside me, the connection followed.

I quickly learned that I couldn’t fake calmness. If I approached a horse telling myself I was fine but my body was tight and unsettled, they would pick up on that in an instant. Horses don’t respond to what we say—they respond to the truth our nervous system is broadcasting. That kind of relational experience can feel confronting, and even disappointing at first. But it’s also deeply healing when we can remain open to the messages being sent. When a horse meets us with curiosity or softness, even when we’re not at our best, it begins to rewire our fear. If we can lean into this process we can shift something fundamental within us: the belief that it’s safe to be seen as the most authentic version of who we are.

As I continue learning the basics of horsemanship—things like leading with intention, timing and pressure, or even simply standing beside the horse in shared stillness—I have started to notice a quiet shift within me. At first, I felt awkward and unsure, like I was trying to speak a language I barely understood. But over time, something has strengthened. My self esteem has increased. My movements came with more awareness. I realized that I wasn’t just learning how to handle a horse—I am learning how to be in relationship, both with the horse and with myself.

There’s something incredibly powerful about experiencing these moments. When I led from a grounded, authentic place, the horse responded. And when the horse responded with trust or ease, I felt it in my whole body. It was a kind of wordless affirmation: you can trust yourself now.

That’s what I hadn’t realized I was craving—not control, not perfection, but trust. Trust that I could be in my body, stay present, and still be safe. That’s what the horse gave me, without ever saying a word.