boundaries – Romancing the Herd

Boundaries Don’t Need Words

A few weeks ago, my doctor sent me for an MRI. I walked in calm, even as the attendant explained that I was about to be slid into a narrow cylinder with no exit and asked to lie still for forty‑five minutes. He offered music to help me relax. I declined. Ten minutes later, I regretted every life choice that brought me to that moment.

Somewhere in the next room, a burly man was yelling, “Get me out of this thing!” His panic did nothing to soothe mine. Inside the tube, the air felt thinner, the walls closer, and my heartbeat louder. Claustrophobia crept up my spine like a slow electrical current.

And then I heard my horse trainer’s voice in my head: Listen to the birds sing.

There were no birds in the MRI tube, but I reached for the image anyway. I pictured myself walking along a quiet beach, waves rolling in and out, the sun warm on my shoulders. It must have worked, because the next thing I knew, the attendant was nudging me awake. Forty‑five minutes had passed without me clawing my way out of the machine.

Horses have been teaching me things for years, often without my noticing.

They are honest in their interactions, intuitive in ways humans rarely allow themselves to be, and immediate in their responses. I’ve been told so many times to “think like a horse” that I now catch myself watching people for the same cues I look for in a pasture: dominance, insecurity, bluffing, avoidance.

If humans handled conflict the way horses do—directly, immediately, and without apology—we’d probably have fewer interpersonal disasters.

Take Sunrise, my Peruvian Paso. Around people she was sweet, soft‑eyed, and polite. But turn her out with other horses and she became the matriarchal mare who takes no prisoners. The first time I saw her defend herself, I was stunned. A horse so gentle with humans had no hesitation setting boundaries with her own kind.

Once, as the new horse in turnout, she was kicked and bitten on Day 1. On Day 2, she made her point. She singled out the aggressor, chased her for twenty minutes, cornered her, and kicked the bejesus out of her. That mare never looked at Sunrise sideways again. Sunrise only had to say it once.

Rosie, my Arabian, is the opposite. I assumed she’d be the lead mare—she’s fiery with humans, opinionated, and expressive. But in turnout she’s the one who gets pushed off hay piles, chased from the fence line, and bullied by horses half her size. Something in her body language tells the herd she won’t fight back. They read her correctly.

Watching them taught me something I should have learned years earlier: what’s inside a horse—or a person—is rarely what you see on the surface. Sunrise looks delicate but is steel. Rosie looks bold but is vulnerable. And humans? We’re even worse at showing who we really are.

Horses don’t tolerate mistreatment. They don’t make excuses for bad behavior. They don’t wait for things to “get better.” They respond in the moment, clearly and without hesitation. Their boundaries are visible, consistent, and respected.

Humans, on the other hand, let things fester. We stay silent. We rationalize. We reward the very behavior we claim to hate. And then we wonder why people “always” treat us a certain way.

A wise woman once told me that every time I interact with my horse, I’m training it—whether I mean to or not. The same is true with people. With every interaction, we teach others how to treat us: through our words, our behavior, and our silence.

When someone crosses a line and we say nothing, we’ve just taught them they can do it again.

Healthy boundaries aren’t walls. They’re self‑respect in action. They keep us centered. They protect our peace. And they’re the first step toward becoming our own best friend.

Part of the “Lessons from the Herd” series

They called her difficult.

They called her untrainable.

By the time I met the small Arabian mare named Rosie, eight owners in eight years had already given up on her. The current owner was preparing to send her to auction — a fate that rarely ends well for a horse.

Somehow the grieving human and the troubled horse found each other.

What followed became a bond of trust that neither of us expected, but both of us needed.

Every horse person remembers their first ride.

Mine came at the age of twelve. Later, after transferring to a new job in Delaware, a colleague named Vivian convinced me to join her for riding lessons. She had recently attended the Devon Horse Show and concluded that riding must be simple — after all, the horse does most of the work.

We signed up for lessons at Arundel Stables in the middle of winter. The outdoor arena was buried in snow and the temperature hovered near twenty degrees.

Vivian rode a horse named Whitey. Each week she proudly mounted and rode toward the arena, only to have Whitey spin around and gallop back to the barn with Vivian screaming the entire way.

One especially cold morning Whitey decided he had endured enough. He deposited Vivian into a deep snow drift, cleared the arena fence, and returned to the warmth of his stall.

Vivian climbed out of the snow unleashing a series of colorful words before storming away.

It was the last day she ever rode a horse.

For reasons I still cannot fully explain, it was the day I realized riding had entered my blood.

Years later, I found the horse who would become my first great partner.

Her name was Sunshine.

She was a ten-year-old Arabian-Quarter Horse cross with kind eyes and endless energy. For the next twenty-five years we explored trails together, first on the East Coast and later in Arizona, where I moved with her when she turned twenty.

Sunshine lived to the remarkable age of thirty-five before impaction colic finally claimed her life.

Losing her was devastating. Some days I laughed remembering our adventures. Other days I cried buckets.

Her photographs still hang near the entryway of my home. Every time I walk through the door, she greets me.

I told myself I would never love another horse the same way.

Then Rosie appeared.

I was looking for a companion horse for Sunshine when someone suggested I visit a backyard outside of Phoenix to see an eight-year-old mare.

Rosie possessed none of the qualities I thought I wanted. She was defensive, mistrustful, and widely considered untrainable. Eight previous owners had passed her along like an unwanted responsibility.

The current owner was ready to send her to auction.

I bought her simply to spare her that fate.

I knew she would be a project. What I didn’t know was how deeply our lives would intertwine.

Training Rosie required help from an extraordinary horsewoman named Koelle.

Koelle quickly recognized that Rosie’s behavior wasn’t stubbornness — it was fear. Every interaction with humans triggered defensive reactions, particularly when anyone tried to touch her face or feet.

Years of mishandling had taught Rosie that people could not be trusted.

The first breakthrough came with the farrier. After a disastrous initial visit, he refused to work on Rosie again unless she was sedated.

Eventually I convinced him to attend a training session with Koelle.

He arrived skeptical.

Within an hour, Rosie stood quietly for hoof care and lifted her feet on cue without even being touched.

The farrier left astonished and still tells the story of Rosie’s transformation that day.

That was the moment the light bulb went on.

Rosie was not untrainable.

She simply needed someone willing to listen.

Despite her mistrust of humans, Rosie displayed surprising gentleness toward Sunshine as the older horse aged.

During turnout in the arena, Rosie adjusted her pace to match Sunshine’s ability on any given day. Some days they ran together. Other days Rosie simply circled protectively while Sunshine rested or struggled to stand after rolling in the sand.

Watching Rosie care for the older mare revealed a side of her few humans had ever seen.

Beneath her defenses was a remarkably intuitive horse.

One moment convinced me just how aware she truly was.

I turned Rosie loose in the arena to run. I removed my sunglasses so she could see my eyes more clearly while we worked together.

Afterward I walked toward the gate with Rosie following behind me.

Only when I reached the gate did I realize my prescription sunglasses were gone.

For twenty minutes I searched the entire arena, convinced they had been crushed beneath pounding hooves.

Rosie waited patiently at the gate, watching my every movement.

Finally, I gave up and walked back toward her.

At that exact moment Rosie left the gate, walked across the arena, and stopped in an unusual spot. She lowered her nose to the sand and held it there.

When I reached down to attach her lead rope, I saw them.

My sunglasses were lying directly beneath her nose.

Not only had she seen them fall — she had carefully avoided stepping on them while galloping around the arena.

When I put the glasses back on, Rosie rested her head on my shoulder and gently nuzzled my neck.

It was the first true affection she had ever offered.

No words were necessary.

Over time, Rosie allowed me to touch her face and welcomed the affection she once rejected.

Every day I remain grateful for the lessons she has taught me about patience, trust, and the quiet power of understanding.

They called her difficult.

They called her untrainable.

But Rosie simply needed someone willing to listen.

She lived with me for twenty years after that first uncertain meeting, and in time she became the horse no one believed she could be — calm, trusting, and deeply intuitive.

I lost Rosie in September of 2024.

Even now, when I walk into a barn and hear the soft shuffle of hooves, I still expect to see her dark eyes watching me.

Some horses teach us how to ride.

Rosie taught me how to listen.

Part of the “Lessons from the Herd” series

Romancing the Herd

Tag: boundaries

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