06/10/2024
I often feel inadequate.
There are the equine therapists who have trademarked their programs and sell their education for thousands of dollars. There are the therapists who tout their self-taught skills and unique methods, and have amassed a huge following and a large client base. There are the therapists who post about the intricacies of anatomy and kinesiology, lymphatics and neurology, and they spill technical terminology as easily as my kids spill their water. There are the therapists who embody that ethereal, magical side of what we do and have the time to do glamorous photo shoots. There are the therapists who meticulously document their “before and after” progress, who mark up their images so we can see the dramatic changes. There are the therapists who share their creative and colorful kinesiotaping work.
And I am not any of those therapists. What even do I do? I lug my box of “tools” with me to every appointment, and invariably I only use my hands. I hardly ever take photos, and if I do, it’s usually pictures of the feet to share with my farrier husband for his input. Do I have a method? A program I could sell?
No… None of that. And I’ve tried. I’ve tried to be like all those other therapists.
But I’m not like them. When I meet a horse for a session, I go into another place where I cannot document a simple before and after. I cannot spell out my method, or my unique techniques. I step in to that enormous electromagnetic field that pulses from the horse’s heart, and I ask humbly if there is anything I can do to help. I offer to listen. I hold space. I suggest that they put aside the burdens they have been carrying. I help them to process pain, but also memories and emotions.
Yes, I use my hands. I do massage, and myofascial release, trigger points, and all those lovely buzz words. I know how to do those things. If all you are looking for is a well-skilled manual therapist, I am absolutely qualified. My box is full of gadgets and colorful tape.
But that’s not what I’m doing when I work. I am exploring a landscape of bones and soft tissue, navigating around nerves and networks of fascia, and feeling - really feeling - through the horse’s body for any clues about how I can help. My hands sometimes take on a life of their own. They will stay in one place even though I think I have done what I can, and if I stay with them and wait, invariably we find a new level of release for the horse. I find strange little swirls in the fascia that seem innocuous enough until I follow them and find just how far-reaching they are. Sometimes I feel compelled to move to a specific spot even though it does not flow in the sequence I intended. But that’s where I will find what we are looking for.
Sometimes I receive thoughts and feelings and memories that do not belong to me. Sometimes a horse is afraid to go to that place in their complex inner world until they feel sure that I can help them through it. Sometimes they have been waiting for me to arrive, and before we begin they are already working on their bodies. Some horses wait for me to leave before they can fully absorb the work. Some horses try to come with me, and I still feel them as I move through my day. Some have been screaming about their struggles and I must help them remember what it is to feel quiet. Some have held everything inside and I must help them to let a little of it out.
How do you write this down? How do I describe this in anatomical terms? You can see it when I am finished: the change in the body is clearly visible. The yawns and the licking and chewing are sure signs. The sudden need to scratch as sensation is restored. The change in the eyes. That much is easy to identify. But how can I possibly explain how it feels when a horse begins to deeply unwind from just a light touch on their head? How do I explain this sensation that I have of the release before it happens? I know it is in there, and I can feel it coming to the surface like a great bubble in a deep lake.
How do I capture this for social media? How can I ever turn this strange and wonderful journey into the incredible business that I see other people creating? Perhaps I can’t. Perhaps all I can do is keep showing up for the horses and doing what I do.
And perhaps that is enough.