The Flicker in His Eye and the Tug in My Spirit

When the Pattern Doesn’t Go as Planned

I feel rushed—I not sure we are ready yet.

He used to love trail rides!

I don’t like how that shoe looks.

We are both trying so hard… why does this still feel wrong?

Work in. Money gone. Time spent.

These are all valid reasons to keep pushing for desired results. But what about those constant doubts, the guilt, or the mere thoughts?

It’s easy to use work, money, and time as excuses to push through our true feelings in pursuit of results. The gratification winning that first payout offers is enough to make us push even harder.

Let’s think back to playing sports in school. Do you remember the coach that always pushed you past your breaking point so much that you resented playing? Did you ever voice your concerns, asking politely for a step back or even a short break?

As we consider this, let’s apply it to that of a horse-handler relationship:

Do we listen to ourselves and our horses as such invite us to pause, question, and grow?

Are you the coach to your horse you always wanted?

Do you push yourself so hard you resent hauling to shows or even practicing?

We often talk about following our gut, trusting our horse, embracing the lifestyle… but do we actually do it?

He Bucked… and I Broke

I am racing toward the first barrel on my best horse, preparing myself to turn. As I begin turning, instead of a balance shift back, my horse comes more forward, pushing his body into the barrel—and me. I do everything I can to allow him not to miss our sweet spot, but he doesn’t listen.

Instead, he throws his head up and back down, then rounds his back as we round the barrel, offering a possible buck.

“This happens sometimes,” I tell myself. “Just ride him through it.”

The next day, I plan to see if the problem arises again during some drills. My horse is perfect. “We can smoke a set this weekend,” I think, confidence rising. I make sure to give him his favorite treats for such a good ride and hose him down well to cool off before tossing him back into his cushy stall. Then I head out to prep for the show.

Race day arrives, and we’re no strangers to the buzz of the arena. We’ve been here before. “We’ve got this. Let’s lay down a great run,” I tell myself.

We’re up!

As I round my circle to send it, I remember our last run… “No matter,” I shake it off. “He was good after I rode through it. LET’S DO THIS. C’mon!”

As we approach first barrel, he feels good—faster than before. We hit the sweet spot perfectly.

Next thing I know, I’m grasping to hang on as my best boy jumps sideways into a set of crow hops.

“How did this happen?” I think, panic creeping in as I ride through the jumps.

Finally, he stops bucking but bolts again. I manage to pull up. We exit the arena in a frenzy of anxiety and confusion.

“I thought this was going to be our next PR run.”

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I thought I did everything right.

Top-brand feed. Cushy stall life. High-end farriery. Expensive saddle. Matching bridle. Winner’s mentality.

“What could possibly be wrong?”

I rewatch my run video and see something I hadn’t noticed before: fear in my best boy’s eyes.

“Why is he so upset?” I ask myself. “He has everything he needs.”

I watch our drill videos. The same look is there. In every video, I start to see it wasn’t just his eyes—it was his body too. Every time I lean forward or pull on his bridle, there’s that flicker again: a tail swish, a head throw, a shift in tension.

I see other horses do it too.

“Isn’t this just normal?” I wonder.

But deep down… “I really hate that look in his eyes.”

I go visit him.

I decide to saddle up for a relaxing trail ride. As I swing the saddle onto his back, there it is again—that flicker. I call my friend.

“It’s nothing,” she says. “Just ride it out.”

I can’t shake it.

So I call someone else.

“Have you checked your saddle fit?” she asks.

That had never crossed my mind. I spent so much money on this saddle—it had to fit, right?

I schedule an appointment with a saddle fitter.

Turns out, his shoulders were sore. Not just sore—screaming. My saddle had been causing tension all the way through his body. Every little shift in my weight meant discomfort. His crow hops? They weren’t resistance. They were a cry for help.

“I knew he was trying to tell me something.”

I gave him time off—months. I changed his feed, gave him more turnout to support reduction of inflammation, and started regular bodywork to unwind the tension. During visits, we just walked. Played. Did treat stretches and groundwork.

That flicker?

Gone.

Week by week… he started to shine again.

Now, I work unmounted fun in often. I bought a saddle that fits him—not just my budget. I even discovered he moves more freely in a side pull, and honestly? I may never go back to a bit.

I finally heard what he was saying. And though I’m heartbroken it took so long to listen, I won’t miss the whisper again—not when I’ve learned how to look for it.

“His buck wasn’t rebellion—it was desperation. I missed it once. I won’t miss it again.”

She is Finally With Me

We’re circling. She settles into the saddle, and I feel the tension in her legs. It’s time to run.

We’re heading toward the first barrel. I know the pattern. I know what she wants. But something already feels off.

As we begin our turn, I try to keep it together. I shift my weight the best I can, but I feel her driving me forward instead of sitting back. The saddle pinches—hard. I try to get away from it. I move into the barrel, trying to avoid the pressure. She pulls me back in.

I throw my head up, then down again, trying to say “That hurts!”

I round my back to brace. She keeps pushing. I offer a little buck—not to throw her off, just… to speak.

She rides me through it like always.

The next day, we practice again. I’m doing everything right. I want to do right. She praises me. Treats. Hose. A break. I’m trying, really I am. But my shoulders ache. The saddle always lands in the same spot. I grit my teeth and give her my best.

Race day.

She’s excited. Focused. Loud music, fast horses, noise everywhere—I’ve done this before. I want to be her good boy.

We’re up.

She circles me. I feel her lean in. My body is tight, but I run.

We hit the first barrel. My hooves land in the sweet spot. But the weight shifts again. The saddle bites down. My back can’t take it. I flinch. I jump sideways. My legs crow-hop without thinking. My body is screaming.

She hangs on. I keep going. I didn’t mean to scare her. I just didn’t know what else to do.

We leave the arena. Her breathing is fast. She’s upset. As am I.

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She watches the videos later. I know because I feel her energy shift.

“Why is he so upset?” she asks.

I’ve been trying to tell her.

She watches again. She sees my eyes. Then my tail. My head toss. The stiffness when she leans. The flinch when she pulls.

“Isn’t that normal?” I hear her wonder. But her heart… it hesitates. It sees.

She comes to visit.

I watch her grab the saddle. My heart races. I try to stay calm, but I can’t hide it. She sees my eyes flicker. Finally.

She calls someone. Then someone else.

The saddle fitter comes. She finds the pain. She touches my shoulders and I flinch. She explains it. The pinching. The pressure. The shutdown. The buck.

She gets it.

My girl gives me time off.

My body starts to breathe again. The inflammation goes down. I get to walk. Play. Stretch. I start to trust that the pain might stay gone.

And she’s different too. Her energy is softer. Her eyes are kinder. She watches me now, not just the clock. She’s learning to hear the whisper so I never have to scream again.

She gets a new saddle. One that fits me. It feels good. I feel good. She rides me in a side pull now, and I can finally move freely. I don’t need to fight for peace anymore—because she’s finally fighting for it with me.

She says she’s heartbroken it took this long to listen.

I say, “Thank you for listening now.”

Horses speak in whispers long before they scream. The question is—are we quiet enough to hear them?

We don’t need to wait for a blowup to start following our gut, trusting our horses, and embracing the lifestyle. We can always work harder, make more money, and carve out more time. But will we always have this horse and this opportunity?

The Spirit doesn’t shout over the noise—we must slow down enough to hear. If the tug on your gut isn’t going away… maybe it’s because it’s the truth and it’s time to face it. Take the invitation because only then do we experience transformation.

#FollowYourGut #ListenToYourHorse #ForTheLoveOfHorses #ItStartsWithUs #ExperienceTransformation

— L.R.