What the Horse Knows — and What I’m Still Learning

I’ve always been fascinated by what science can’t quite measure — that invisible thread between horse and human, body and body, feeling and field. Chris Irwin says horses are not at the effect of their thoughts but of their feelings, and I’ve built an entire way of working around that truth. Somewhere between the nervous system and the soul, there’s a conversation happening — not in words but in waves. I’ve spent years trying to decode it, only to discover that the horse never needed me to understand — just to listen.

The Science of Feeling

The longer I work with humans and horses, the more I see that feeling is the bridge between worlds. Horses don’t live in stories, theories, or narratives — they live in nervous systems. Their awareness is immediate, embodied, and honest. When Chris Irwin says, “The frame of body equals the frame of mind,” he’s describing a truth both neurobiological and spiritual: the body tells the truth before the mind catches up.

We talk about connection, but often what we mean is compliance. We talk about communication, but what we offer is performance. Horses remind me daily that regulation is the real relationship. The horse’s autonomic nervous system doesn’t lie — it doesn’t pretend it’s fine when it isn’t. When a horse flinches, braces, freezes, or licks and chews, they’re showing me what the human body often hides.

The Myth of Connection

“Connection” has become one of those words people use to sell comfort. I’ve seen it in the spiritual world, the therapy world, and the horse world alike. It sounds noble — heartfelt, even — but connection without congruence is just another form of control.

At a recent equine event, I watched someone teach “connection work.” They spoke of trauma, Polyvagal Theory, and emotional regulation, but what unfolded in the arena felt incongruent. The words were right, but the body wasn’t. The energy was one of performance, not presence.

Ray Hunt’s famous quote — “They know when you know, and they know when you don’t” — came to mind. The horse knew. So did I. The human nervous system, like the horse’s, recognises falseness. We know when someone is talking about safety but not creating it. We feel when intention and embodiment are misaligned. Connection can’t be taught through contradiction. It can only be lived.

Energetics: Push, Block, Draw

Chris Irwin describes three energetic states that shape every interaction: push, block, and draw. Push invites movement. Block provides containment. Draw creates invitation.

Every relationship — with horses, humans, or self — depends on our ability to know which one is needed and when. Too much push, and the other feels pressured. Too much block, and they feel shut out. True leadership, whether in therapy or horsemanship, lives in draw — the magnetic pull of safety that invites curiosity without coercion.

That’s also the essence of trauma-informed practice: guiding rather than demanding, regulating before relating. It’s the opposite of eliciting a “spook” to teach calmness. A horse (or person) doesn’t learn safety by being startled into submission; they learn it when the environment itself becomes a teacher of peace.

Vision and Blind Spots

Horses have nearly panoramic vision, yet they carry a small blind spot directly in front of their face. When we stand too close, we vanish from their view. To connect, we must step back — physically and energetically — to allow them to orient, to see us clearly.

Humans have their blind spots too. We disappear from one another when we push too hard, assume too much, or get caught in the righteousness of knowing. The horse reminds me daily that proximity is not intimacy; real closeness comes from space, breath, and respect.

Knowing and Not Knowing

Both Irwin and Schiller love that Ray Hunt line — “They know when you know.” But what I’ve come to realise is that many can repeat the quote without yet living it. Horses read incongruence instantly; humans sense it too. We know when someone “knows” — not intellectually, but somatically.

The difference between speaking about connection and being connected lies in coherence. When thought, feeling, and action align, the field softens. When they don’t, no amount of technique can mask it. I’ve seen teachers perform authenticity without embodying it — and horses, like children, don’t buy it.

Connection isn’t clever. It’s honest.

Taking Sides

Terry Real, a relational therapist I admire, says, “We’re not neutral — we side with the person asking for more intimacy.” His work reminds me that healing isn’t achieved through detachment, but through relational alliance.

At Hurihanga, I don’t take sides with the horse or for the human — I take sides with the field itself — the living space between them. That’s where truth resides. The horse isn’t the client; they’re the co-therapist, the mirror, the nervous system that tells no lies. My role isn’t to manage the horse or fix the human, but to hold presence steady enough that what wants to heal can emerge.

The Question of Evidence

Recently, Warwick Schiller shared a story about Chance — a horse he says he trained using only “connection methods.” It’s a moving narrative, but as I researched, I found no empirical study or scientific validation for the approach. That doesn’t diminish its experiential value, but it does highlight something important: the space where intuition meets responsibility.

In trauma-informed practice, we can’t rely solely on anecdotes or charisma; safety must be evidence-based. I hold reverence for all who explore connection through relationship — but connection without comprehension risks becoming performance in softer clothing.

As therapists, facilitators, or horse people, our task is to anchor inspiration in integrity — to ensure that what feels healing is also safe.

The Unlearning

Every lesson with the horses leads me back to the same truth: unlearning obedience.The obedience taught in Pony Club. The obedience praised in perfectionism. The obedience that told me good girls, good riders, and good women don’t challenge authority.

That conditioning taught me to override my instincts — and that’s the very pattern I help my clients, and sometimes my horses, recover from.

When I let go of obedience, I return to attunement.When I stop performing, I start listening. When I stop controlling, I start connecting.

Terry Real says, “In any moment, you can be connected or powerful — but you can’t be both.”Maybe the great paradox is that true power is connection — the kind that doesn’t fracture but flows, that doesn’t command but invites.

What the Horse Knows

The horse doesn’t care about theories, methods, or manifestos. They care about how it feels. They feel when we’re grounded, when we’re incongruent, when we’ve lost touch with our own centre. They respond to what’s real, not what’s rehearsed.

I used to think horsemanship was about training a horse to trust me.Now I see it’s about becoming trustworthy.

At Hurihanga, this is what we practise — humans and horses meeting in the space between knowing and not knowing, learning and unlearning, power and presence. Because connection isn’t something we teach — it’s something we remember.