Knowledge Circle Library

Frustration — How Stress Affects a Horse

Thu, 07 May 2026 16:47:58 GMT

Horses don’t just feel our stress — they carry it with us.

There’s no better example of how deeply horses feel our stress — and how gently they try to tell us — than this moment with Dolly.

One spring evening, after a frantic day at work, I drove straight to the yard. I told myself the fresh air would help, that a quiet ride around the village would clear my head. But as soon as I stopped the car, I could feel my insides racing. My body was still in the speed and tension of the day.

I sat for a moment, breathing, trying to “leave the stress at the gate,” as so many people advise. But my mind was still running.

Dolly came to the fence when she saw me, as she always did. We walked back through the fields and I tried to focus on how lucky I was to have her. In the stable she ate her hay, listening to me ramble on while I groomed her. Everything felt normal — until I came back with her tack.

She took one look… and quietly walked to the back corner.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t defiant. It was her polite way of saying, “Not today, Mum.”

Dolly loved going out. We’d ridden miles together. This wasn’t like her. But I could feel my own insides shaking, and I knew exactly what she was reacting to.

Still, I persisted. I told myself that once I was on her back, everything would settle. She let me tack her up, but she made it as awkward as possible — stepping away, turning her head, testing me gently, asking, “Are you really in the right place to lead me today?”

By the time we got to the picnic table we used as a mounting block, my patience was thin. Dolly walked up and stopped one step too far back. When I asked her forward, she took two strides and stopped too far ahead. Backwards, forwards, sideways — she did everything I asked, but never quite what I needed.

Dolly, the queen of polite evasion.

Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes passed. My frustration from the day was bubbling up, and finally it spilled over. I tapped her once with the little crop I carried for flies and snapped, “Dolly, just do as I ask!”

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t move. She simply turned her head and looked at me.

A look that said, as clearly as words, “You don’t hit me.”

Shame hit me like a wave. I burst into tears — not because of Dolly, but because the whole day came pouring out. I sat down on the table, crying, and Dolly walked over and placed her nose gently on my arm.

That was all it took.

I apologised to her through tears. “You’re right, Dolly. I shouldn’t have hit you. It was only a tap… and you’re supposed to be my horse, not my psychiatrist.” The absurdity of it made me laugh, and she stood there with those knowing eyes, steady and patient.

When I finally stood up and said, “Right, shall we go for this ride now?” she walked straight into the perfect position for me to mount.

No hesitation. No evasion. Just calm readiness.

And as soon as I sat on her, I realised all the shaky tension inside me had gone. The ride was shorter than planned, but it was peaceful. Dolly was her usual, steady self.

That evening she taught me something I’ve never forgotten:

Horses don’t just feel our stress — they carry it with us. And sometimes they hold the boundary we can’t hold for ourselves.

The Day Dolly Bolted — and Chose Connection Over Panic

Thu, 07 May 2026 16:47:54 GMT

This post is part of the Elise & Dolly Trust Series Part 1 of 3

Some moments stay with you forever. This one is etched into me.

We were only meant to be giving Elise — a tiny twelve‑year‑old slip of a girl, barely four and a half stone — a short, easy hack on Dolly. Dolly, my 15.3hh Clydesdale‑cross Gypsy Cob, carried her as gently as if she knew exactly how small her rider was. They’d spent Sundays together in the school, building connection, learning each other’s rhythms, and now they both wanted a little more adventure. So, Elise’s mum and I walked with them down the road, watching Elise trot back and forth, calm and confident, doing beautifully for a child her age. When we reached the field track, I told her she could have a canter — as long as she stayed in sight. She set off… and then a bird-scarer exploded behind the hedge.

It made all of us jump.

Dolly shot forward. A natural reaction. If I’d been riding, loose reins would’ve given her space to process the noise and realise she was safe. But Elise had been taught the standard riding-school way: keep a contact, pull to slow down. She did the only thing she knew. Dolly, already startled, felt that pressure as pain, and it pushed her fear higher and a startle became a true bolt — the kind that takes horse and rider out of sight in seconds.

As she disappeared up the track, my stomach dropped. For a moment I thought, I’ve trusted too far. I’ve lost them both.

I shouted, “Ease your reins!” hoping it would give Dolly a chance to think instead of flee.

And then something happened that I still struggle to put into words.

Dolly heard my voice.

She didn’t keep running. She didn’t vanish into the distance. She didn’t do what bolting horses are supposed to do.

She turned.

A huge, sweeping arc across the field — heading back towards me, back towards the place where the frightening sound had come from, simply so she could find me. Elise was hanging on with astonishing instinct, softening her hands as best she could, doing everything she could to stay balanced.

Dolly’s eyes were locked on me the whole time.

I kept my voice low and steady. “Good girl, Dolly… steady…”

She eased to a fast trot, powered right up to me and stopped, trembling, blowing hard, shock and adrenaline pouring through her. Judi went straight to Elise, who was shaken but safe. I stood with Dolly, breathing slowly so she could follow my rhythm and let the fear drain out of her body.

And I just kept saying it, over and over as we walked back to the barn:

“I can’t believe she did that.”

Because horses that bolt don’t do that. They don’t loop back. They don’t choose connection over escape. They don’t run towards the place where the fear began.

But Dolly did.

Confused, frightened — and still searching for her person as her safest place.

It remains one of the clearest demonstrations of trust I’ve ever witnessed. A reminder that “control” doesn’t guarantee safety. Connection does.

And Elise? She was extraordinary. Most riders get thrown backwards when a horse bolts. Panic takes over. But Elise stayed soft, stayed centred, and worked her way back into the saddle. She rode with instinct far beyond her years.

That was the only time Dolly ever bolted in the ten years I owned her.

And the day she proved, beyond any doubt, that trust can override fear in ways most people would never believe — unless they saw it with their own eyes.

Read the full story of Dolly & Elise’s journey here .

The Dressage Competition - Little Girl on a Big Horse

Thu, 07 May 2026 16:47:52 GMT

This post is part of the Elise & Dolly Trust Series Part 2 of 3

Some ladies at the yard were chatting about supporting a local charity dressage competition, and on a whim we decided to enter Dolly. She ended up in three tests: the walk–trot with me, the walk–trot again with Elise, and the prelim with my dear friend Julia — someone who had been an important part of Dolly’s life from the start.

As far as I knew, Dolly had never competed before. Elise and I certainly hadn’t. Thankfully, Julia had, and on the day she handled the entries, numbers, and all the overwhelming little details like an absolute pro. She was a star.

We each practiced in the weeks beforehand and hitched a lift with a lovely lady from our previous yard. It all felt light-hearted — just something fun to do together.

I was the first to ride. Dolly was an angel. All the mounting issues we’d struggled with in the past were forgotten. She stood quietly, set off willingly, and tried her heart out for me. I was a nervous rider by then, worried her powerful trot would roll into canter and I’d fall off. Even so, we scored 57% in the walk–trot. Respectable, considering I rode half the test like I had the handbrake on.

Afterwards, I went to help Elise warm Dolly up in the collecting ring. Elise rode a beautiful, forward working trot — the kind that makes you think, wow, that horse feels good today. But when she came back to me, her face had changed.

In that quiet little voice of hers, she said she didn’t want to warm up anymore.

It took a moment before she told me why. Another rider had looked at her and said:

“Little girl on a big horse. Dangerous.”

My heart dropped. Elise was willful, yes — but she was also delicate. And she adored Dolly. That comment had landed right where it hurt.

I told her firmly, “You did a beautiful working trot. You are not dangerous. Go and warm your horse up.”

With a bit of encouragement, she gathered herself, rode back into the space, and quietly did exactly that.

Then she went into the arena and won the walk–trot.

Over 60%. Eighteen competitors. All adults on their own horses. And she beat me and Dolly into fifth place — she was simply the better rider.

It was one of the proudest moments of my life. Not because of the rosettes, but because Dolly carried her with such kindness, and Elise rose above something that would have crushed many adults.

The trust between them was real. And everyone watching could see it.

Read the full story of Dolly & Elise’s journey here.

When Horses Miss Their Humans — Dolly and Elise’s Reunion

Thu, 07 May 2026 16:47:51 GMT

This post is part of the Elise & Dolly Trust Series Part 3 of 3

TTime moved on, as it always does. Elise began getting regular offers to ride other people’s ponies — she was talented, kind, and quiet in her approach, the sort of child every mother trusts with their “naughty” ones. It was good for her, and her mum never held her back.

Around the same time, I moved Dolly to a yard closer to my new job, but further from where Elise lived. Visits naturally became fewer. We all understood — Elise was growing up, life was changing, and nothing stays the same forever.

But whenever they did visit, nothing between them had changed. Dolly still lit up for her. Elise still rode with that same softness and instinct. They played, they laughed, they made up little games — and I never once worried about them together. Their trust was still intact.

Years passed. Dolly and I moved again, this time even further away. We were both older, both dealing with health issues, and I assumed that chapter had closed gently and naturally.

Then one day, while Dolly was eating her hay, she heard a young girl laughing somewhere on the yard. Her ears shot forward — a spark I hadn’t seen in a long time. She followed the sound around the stables, hopeful. But when the girl came into view and it wasn’t Elise, I watched the brightness fall away from her whole body.

That was the moment I realised how much she missed her little friend.

I reached out to Judi, who said they’d been thinking of us too. They agreed to visit.

Elise had grown into a tall, elegant young woman. I left Dolly in the field so Elise could fetch her. When we walked in, Dolly looked confused — she could hear Elise’s voice but couldn’t match it to the grown girl in front of her. I handed Elise the headcollar and said, “Go and fetch her.”

Judi and I watched as they walked towards each other. Dolly hesitated… then recognised her. Judi caught the moment on camera — their heads together, reunited after all those years.

It was beautiful.

We tacked up and Elise took Dolly into the bottom field, popping over little jumps. Dolly was about nineteen by then, slowing down, stiffening, showing her age. But that afternoon she was young again. Back with her young friend.

And in that moment, I understood something I had never fully seen before.

Horses don’t just remember people — they bond with them. They miss them. They grieve their absence.

Dolly had adapted herself to me — a steady, older, nervous woman — just as she had once adapted to Elise. Horses shape themselves around the humans in their lives. They meet us where we are. But inside, they remain the vibrant beings they have always been.

We buy and sell horses. We move them from place to place, human to human, expecting them to stay the same. But they carry their relationships with them. They feel the losses. They feel the reunions.

That day, Dolly reminded me of something simple and profound:

Owning a horse is not an entitlement. It is a responsibility — to be someone worth adapting to.

Because horses never lie.

Read the full story of Dolly & Elise’s journey here .

When Trauma Shapes Behaviour

Sun, 05 Apr 2026 09:13:04 GMT

What Flash Taught Me About Horses, Bullying ,and Trust.

Some horses arrive in our lives not to be owned, ridden, or trained, but to teach us something deeper about behaviour, fear, and survival.

Flash was one of those horses.

I had been told that when the time came I could have him if I wanted, on the understanding that I would never try to ride him. In truth, taking him on financially would have been unrealistic, and I knew that. But I was drawn to him in a way that was difficult to explain. He was nervous in situations that should have felt safe, unpredictable at times, and clearly living with something he did not understand himself.

What I saw in Flash was not a dangerous horse.

I saw a horse living with trauma.

I believed his explosive behaviour was not aggression or defiance, but flashbacks from early rough handling and training. The most worrying part was that he could not warn you, because he did not always know himself that something was about to trigger fear.

And in this horse, I saw something very familiar.

I saw me.

Many years ago, before I met my husband and before I met Dolly, I lived in a relationship that was built on control and intimidation. It did not begin that way. It never does. But over time, the pattern became clear: things were done his way or not at all.

I learned quickly what not to do.

I learned not to challenge.

I learned to predict moods and reactions.

I learned to stay quiet to avoid punishment.

In effect, I became trained.

Not trained through understanding, but trained through fear and consequence.

Living like that creates a constant state of alertness, where your mind is always scanning for danger, always trying to anticipate what is expected so that you do not trigger a negative reaction. The body learns to survive by guessing, adapting, and avoiding conflict.

This is trauma.

And it is not very different from what many horses experience in traditional training systems.

Years ago, I heard a description that has stayed with me ever since:

Imagine being taken away from everything familiar and placed somewhere you do not understand, surrounded by strangers speaking a language you cannot comprehend. They ask you to do things, but you do not know what they want. When you guess wrong, they hit you and repeat the request, and you are expected to try again.

For a human, this would feel like a nightmare.

For many horses, it is their introduction to the human world.

Flash helped me see this more clearly than ever before.

People often say that working with unpredictable horses is dangerous and foolish, and they are right to be cautious. Safety always matters. But what Flash needed was not control, force, or pressure. What he needed was space, calm, and someone who expected nothing from him.

When I spent time with him, there was no agenda.

No training plan.

No goals.

No expectations.

Just presence, calmness, and consistency.

I explained to him that I was not the person who could take him forward long term. I would be in my seventies when he was an old horse, and realistically, he was not mine to keep. But in those quiet moments, the connection that developed was based on something simple: peace.

What Flash seemed to ask for was not performance.

He asked to be heard.

And that is where one of the most important lessons of horse listening begins.

Trauma does not disappear through pressure.

It softens through safety.

When a horse begins to feel safe, their nervous system settles. When their nervous system settles, they begin to understand the world around them. When they understand, they can adapt. When they adapt, trust begins to form.

Trust is not built through control.

Trust is built through emotional safety and consistency.

This is often misunderstood in the horse world. Listening to a horse is sometimes dismissed as being too soft, spoiling them, or allowing them to avoid work. In reality, listening is not about letting horses do whatever they want. It is about understanding the emotional and psychological state that sits behind behaviour.

A horse that feels safe can move forward.

A horse that feels threatened will survive.

Flash showed me that behaviour is often a language of past experiences, not a refusal to cooperate. His reactions were not deliberate disobedience; they were survival responses shaped by earlier experiences he could not forget.

In many ways, working with Flash mirrored healing from bullying.

Both require patience.

Both require calm environments.

Both require trust to rebuild slowly.

And both require someone willing to listen without judgement.

The lesson Flash gave me was simple but profound:

Horses do not ask us to make them athletes, competitors, or performers.

They ask us to understand who they are and what they have lived through.

When we listen, they begin to feel safe.

When they feel safe, they begin to trust.

And when trust grows, behaviour changes naturally.

Flash did not need fixing.

He needed peace.

And in offering him peace, he reminded me that the human-horse connection is not built on control or dominance, but on empathy, understanding, and emotional safety.

That is the foundation of ethical horsemanship.

Encouragement, Support, and Coercion: Finding the Ethical Balance When Asking Horses to Move Forward

Sun, 05 Apr 2026 08:56:32 GMT

Our intention matters more than we know

One of the hardest things I have had to sit and think about over the years is the difference between encouraging a horse to move forward and coercing them into doing something they are not ready for.

Listening to horses is at the heart of everything I believe in, but horses and humans are working together toward goals. Whether that goal is walking calmly on a lead rope, hacking safely down a road, competing, or simply building confidence, there are moments where the human needs to ask the horse to move forward.

This creates an important ethical question.

When does encouragement become pressure?

When does support become coercion?

And where does listening sit when we still need to move toward a goal?

I spent a long time reflecting on this because simply saying “listen to your horse” is not enough. Horses and humans live in a shared space, and both need clarity, safety, and direction. Doing nothing is not always listening, and pushing forward is not always wrong. The balance sits somewhere in the middle, and finding that balance requires honesty and self-awareness.

Coercion happens when the outcome becomes more important than the horse.

It shows up in pressure that does not stop when the horse is confused or worried.

It shows up in ignoring fear because progress is expected.

It shows up in forcing movement instead of understanding hesitation.

The horse may comply, but compliance is not trust. Compliance often means the horse has learned that their voice does not matter. Over time, this creates tension, anxiety, and sometimes dangerous reactions because the horse is coping rather than partnering.

Encouragement and support look very different.

Encouragement is a clear request followed by observation.

Support means paying attention to how the horse responds and adjusting what we ask.

It means allowing time to think, time to process, and time to feel safe.

It means guiding rather than forcing.

When a horse feels supported, they begin to understand that movement is not something being demanded from them, but something they can do safely with the human beside them.

This is where listening becomes real.

Listening is not stepping back and never asking anything of the horse.

Listening is understanding their emotional state, their readiness, and their confidence level, and then guiding them in a way that protects their welfare while still moving toward a shared goal.

It took me time to accept this.

I had to sit with the uncomfortable truth that both extremes can cause problems.

Pushing creates fear and resistance, but never asking can leave horses and humans stuck without direction or safety.

The ethical space sits in responsible guidance — asking clearly, observing carefully, and supporting the horse as they move forward.

Horses do not resist guidance.

They resist fear, pressure, and confusion.

When they feel heard and supported, they are often willing to try, willing to move, and willing to trust.

This is the balance I have come to understand through watching and learning from horses over many years. Listening and moving forward are not opposites. They work together when trust is at the centre of the partnership.

Encouragement builds confidence.

Support builds trust.

Coercion destroys both.

The responsibility sits with us to know the difference.

Consider your intention.

When you approach your horse, how do you feel to them?

L ike a predator with an agenda driven by fear and control,

like a leader who supports them through their natural life of fear and hesitation?

Horses are prey animals.

They constantly assess the emotional state and intention of the beings around them.

Our body language, energy, and internal state tell them whether they are safe or whether they need to protect themselves.

Our intention matters more than we know.

If you would like to explore how your presence and mindset affect your horse, you can try my short free audio exercise.

This gentle exercise helps you become aware of what your horse may be sensing and how small changes in intention can shift behaviour and connection. Try the free download here