Listening Over Defending

Were You Taught…

Were you taught by mentors you trusted to defend your every choice rather than question them humbly?

I was.

I learned from horse people who worked hard. People who wanted to do things “right.” I defended the choices of the experienced rather than looking deeper for insight from the one constant that matters—the horse.

So when something didn’t feel quite right, I learned to defend.

I learned that “That’s just how it’s done” meant authority.
I learned explanations meant protection.
I learned feedback meant challenge.

And for a long time, I chose that path.

Because listening meant questioning my shaped beliefs.

When Humility Shapes Horsemanship

At some point in life, most of us make choices we later wish we could revisit. We ignore gut feelings. We procrastinate. We let fear guide us. We follow advice that doesn’t sit right. We stay quiet when we should speak up. And when we realize something wasn’t right, our first instinct is rarely curiosity.

It is usually defense.

We explain. We justify. We protect ourselves from feeling foolish, irresponsible, or wrong. Defending our choices feels mature. It feels responsible. It feels like ownership.

But often, it is simply avoidance.

In horsemanship, this instinct shows up constantly. Our horses offer feedback in every interaction. Through posture, tension, breath, movement, hesitation, expression—they are always communicating. And yet, learning to truly listen is far harder than learning to explain.

Stewardship asks something different of us. It asks us to pause. To soften. To admit we may have missed something. To choose humility over pride.

Why We Defend

When I was younger, I watched horse people I admired as if they were royalty. I studied them. I copied them. I trusted them.

Every once in a while, I would see something that made my stomach drop.
“Did they really just do that?”

My inner values were still forming, but one thing was already clear: I loved horses. I wanted harmony. I wanted partnership. I wanted the kind of relationship that felt peaceful and mutual.

But eventually, all of us reach moments where our morals and our habits collide.
Sometimes, we fail that test.

Being wrong feels embarrassing. It threatens our identity. So we learn to defend.

“That’s just how it’s done.”
“My mentor taught me this.”
“They know more than I do.”

We surround ourselves with people who think the same way. We seek validation. We build communities that make our choices feel normal, even when our conscience is uneasy.
We want success. We want belonging. We want approval. And we fear judgment.
So we choose what feels socially safe, even when it creates inner conflict.

Over time, this becomes a habit.

We rationalize. We ignore contradictory information. We double down.
We invent explanations to protect ourselves from cognitive dissonance. We build a mental shield around our decisions.

And when feedback threatens that shield, we argue.
Not because we are cruel.
Because we are scared.

Horses as Silent Teachers

Every experience we have is an opportunity to learn—if we are willing.

In many training systems, we are taught to set a goal and complete the task. Productivity becomes proof of competence. Accomplishment becomes identity.

Horses operate differently.

They have no agenda beyond meeting their needs for freedom, forage, and friends. They do not justify themselves. They do not manipulate. They do not argue.

They communicate.

Their lives depend on it.

In a herd, one horse senses danger and snorts. Another takes off. The rest follow. No debate. No ego. No dismissal.

Humans, on the other hand, filter communication through pride and trust. We listen selectively. We resist discomfort. We cling to control because it feels predictable.

When a horse offers feedback that challenges our plan, the response is revealing.
Beginners often question themselves immediately. They are still learning. They are still open.
Experienced riders sometimes do the opposite. They dismiss. They normalize. They override.

“It’s nothing.”
“He always does that.”
“Just push through.”

Many are taught this. I was taught this.

I was taught to ignore behaviors that made me uneasy. I was taught to keep going when my stomach churned. I was taught to interpret resistance as disrespect. I was taught that intuition was weakness.

And somewhere along the way, I absorbed a dangerous belief:

“Horses are big animals. It’s hard for us little humans to hurt them.”

So I kept going.

When Feedback Is Missed

Horses rarely “act out” without reason.

A hard-to-catch horse. A refusal. A buck. A brace. A shut-down response.

These are not accidents.

They often begin quietly.

A nose flare when the saddle is tightened. An ear flick during a new maneuver. A tail swish when the bit engages. A shallow breath. A tightened jaw.
We miss them when we are focused on being right.

Humans show signs too.

Guilt when tightening the cinch. Doubt about whether our horse enjoys us. Remorse after using pressure. Anxiety we can’t explain.

We are told:
“Spurs are just an extension of the leg.”
“He’s being disrespectful.”
“You can’t let him win.”

Meanwhile, something inside us is saying, “Stop.”

Those feelings are not weakness.

They are a moral compass.

They point toward growth, apology, repair, and learning.

When ignored, they become rationalization.

The Power of Humility

To learn is to admit we do not know everything.

That takes humility.

Humility does not mean self-hatred. It does not mean shame. It does not mean blaming our past.

It means honest ownership.

We recognize that earlier seasons shaped us. We forgive what we did not yet understand. We take responsibility for what we now know.

Superiority is dangerous in horsemanship. It leads to control, domination, and narrow thinking.

Wisdom begins with reverence.

With acknowledging limits. With serving others. With listening to God’s guidance.

The inner voice that says ‘stop’ is often the Holy Spirit prompting discernment.

“Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves.”
Philippians 2:3–4

If we cannot question our methods, we cannot grow.

“Those who live to please the Spirit will harvest everlasting life.”
Galatians 6:7–8

Listening is not surrender.

It is strength.

Choosing Reflection Over Reaction

Listening requires self-awareness.

We must ask:

• What are my core values?

• What triggers defensiveness in me?

• How do I respond to criticism?

• Where do I feel tense?

Practical habits help:

• Journaling

• Emotional check-ins before and after sessions

• Breathing practices

• Processing difficult rides

• Reflective prayer

Reactivity creates reactive horses.
Observation creates safe ones.

When we pause before responding, we create space for learning.

Faith and Stewardship

Caring for horses is an act of service.

Those drawn to them often carry a shepherd’s heart.

A shepherd does not dominate. A shepherd tends. Protects. Observes. Responds.

When we try to reshape horses to fit our ego, we move away from God’s design.

We did not create them.
We were entrusted with them.

Letting go of control allows us to step into stewardship.

Whether we trail ride, compete, ranch, or train, our responsibility remains the same:
To honor their design.

An Invitation to Listen

Self-examination is uncomfortable.

But it is freeing.

Our horses respond when we change.

They soften when saddles fit. They relax when friends are nearby. They breathe when pressure eases. They trust when they are heard.

Next time your horse shifts, swishes, hesitates, or resists—pause.

Ask:
“What are you telling me?”
“What can I learn?”
“How can I serve you better?”

Humility is not giving in.
It is growing up.

It brings us back to the dreams we had as horse-crazy kids—dreams of harmony, connection, and partnership.

It doesn’t have to remain a fairytale. When we choose listening over defending, we choose stewardship.

And both we and our horses are better for it.

Part 3 of 7