The Lessons Horses Taught Me About Being Human

If you ask me who I am, there are probably two answers that come up pretty quickly: I’m a therapist, and I’m a horse girl.

And honestly, I’m not sure there has ever been a version of me that wasn't both.

I have been competing in equine sports since I was five years old. Horses have been woven through nearly every chapter of my life—the early mornings, long hauling, show pens, victories, disappointments, friendships, heartbreaks, and the countless hours spent trying to become just a little bit better.

I am also deeply, unapologetically obsessed with horses.

But somewhere along the way, I realized that horses were teaching me things about being human long before I ever had the professional language to describe them.

Horses Don't Care About Perfect

Equestrian sport can be a beautiful place, but it can also be a world that thrives on perfection.

The perfect ride.
The perfect score.
The perfect horse.
The perfect turnout.
The perfect photo.
The perfect response when something goes wrong.

We learn to watch every detail. We replay our mistakes. We compare ourselves to the person in the next stall. We can convince ourselves that if we just work harder, prepare more, or become good enough, we can finally arrive at some imaginary place where we won't make mistakes anymore.

But horses have never asked me to be perfect.

They have taught me that perfection isn't particularly relatable.

Horses respond to what is actually happening. They don't care about the version of ourselves we wish we had brought into the arena. They respond to our tension, our hesitation, our confidence, our energy, and our ability to stay present.

And sometimes they tell us, very clearly, that our carefully constructed plan isn't going to happen today.

That can be incredibly humbling.

It can also be incredibly therapeutic.

Mistakes Are Information

One of the things I love most about working with horses is that mistakes don't have to become moral judgments.

A bad ride doesn't mean you're a bad rider.

A missed lead doesn't mean you aren't talented.

A disappointing show doesn't mean you don't belong.

A difficult day doesn't erase all the work that came before it.

Mistakes give us information.

They invite curiosity.

What happened? What were you feeling? What did your body do? What did you expect? What did your horse experience? What can we learn from this?

Those are very different questions from, What's wrong with me?

That distinction is at the heart of how I approach therapy.

I want therapy to be a place where you can explore the things that didn't go according to plan without having to defend yourself, minimize them, or pretend they didn't hurt.

What Horses Have Taught Me About Resilience

Horses have taught me that resilience isn't about never falling apart.

It's about learning that you can find your way back.

Sometimes resilience looks like getting back on.

Sometimes it looks like taking a break.

Sometimes it means changing the plan.

Sometimes it means admitting that something isn't working.

And sometimes it means grieving something you desperately wanted to keep.

I learned that lesson in one of the most painful ways possible when I lost my horse, Mufasa.

Mufasa wasn't simply a horse.

He was our constant.

He carried so much of our story—our dreams, our wins, our losses, our growing up, and so much of our life together. There are parts of my life that are inseparable from him.

When I lost him, I was certain I would never come back from it.

And for a while, I couldn't imagine what "coming back" would even mean.

I think grief has a way of changing the definition of resilience.

Sometimes resilience isn't moving on.

Sometimes it's learning how to carry what mattered with you while continuing forward.

Mufasa is still part of my story. Losing him changed me, but it didn't erase everything we built together.

The Therapist Behind the Horse Girl

My professional work in mental health has given me language and tools for many of the lessons horses taught me instinctively.

I integrate Internal Family Systems (IFS), Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT), and Equine-Assisted Psychotherapy (EAP) into my work.

IFS helps us become curious about the different parts of ourselves—the part that is terrified, the part that wants everything to be perfect, the part that criticizes us after a mistake, and the part that desperately wants to protect us from being hurt again.

DBT gives us practical skills for navigating intense emotions, managing distress, improving relationships, regulating our responses, and learning to stay present when life feels overwhelming.

And EAP creates an opportunity to experience some of that work in a different way—through connection, observation, movement, trust, and relationship with a horse.

These approaches aren't about fixing something that is "wrong" with you.

They're about developing a deeper understanding of yourself.

I Don't Ask My Clients to Be Perfect

I say this as a therapist, but also as someone who has sat on both sides of the therapeutic experience.

I have my own mental health history. I have been diagnosed with PTSD and OCD, and those experiences have shaped my understanding of what it means to live with a mind that can sometimes feel like it is working overtime to protect you.

I know what it is like to struggle with symptoms that don't always make sense from the outside.

I know what it is like to want certainty.

I know what it is like to feel like your brain won't let something go.

And I know what it is like to wonder whether you will always feel this way.

My experiences don't make me an expert on anyone else's story. They don't mean I have experienced what you have experienced.

But they have taught me something important about therapy:

People don't need another person telling them how they should be doing life. They need a safe place to be honest about where they actually are.

That's the space I try to create.

For the Riders, Athletes, and Humans

While I have a particular passion for working with equine athletes, the lessons I've learned from horses extend far beyond the show pen.

Athletes of all kinds understand pressure.

The pressure to perform.
The fear of failure.
The comparison.
The identity that becomes intertwined with achievement.
The feeling that one bad performance somehow says something about your worth.

And humans in general understand those things, too.

You don't have to be an equestrian to understand what it feels like to strive for perfection while quietly wondering whether you're enough.

My goal as a therapist is to help people move away from that constant demand for perfection and toward something more sustainable: curiosity, self-compassion, resilience, and connection.

Because perfection isn't where we learn the most about ourselves.

The messy moments are often where the work begins.

The mistake.

The difficult conversation.

The disappointing ride.

The unexpected diagnosis.

The relationship that changes.

The loss we never thought we could survive.

The moment when our carefully constructed plan falls apart.

Those moments don't have to define us.

They can become places where we pause, become curious, and ask:

What is this trying to teach me?

Horses have taught me that we don't have to be perfect to have a meaningful partnership.

We have to be present.

We have to listen.

We have to repair.

We have to learn.

And sometimes, we simply have to keep showing up.

That is something I hope to bring into every therapeutic relationship I have—the belief that you don't have to arrive perfectly put together.

You just have to be willing to show up as you are.

I'll meet you there.