02/11/2026
A gentle reminder when working with/partnering with (not “using”) nonhuman animals.
Imagine, just for a moment, that your body is not fully your own.
Imagine that strangers feel entitled to reach for you, stroke you, lean over you, or physically move you without asking. When you step back, stiffen, or quietly signal please don’t, you are told you are rude, difficult, or ungrateful.
Now imagine you are carrying pain, not obvious pain, but the kind that aches through your muscles, your joints, your back, your gut. You know it is real. You live with it daily. But every professional you see tells you they cannot find anything wrong.
You return to work anyway. You try. You grit your teeth. Your body tightens, your breath shortens, your movements become guarded. And when you finally cannot cope anymore and you push someone away, you are labelled aggressive, dangerous, or non compliant.
For a horse, this is not a thought experiment. This is often their lived reality.
There are moments in a horse’s life when handling is genuinely necessary, veterinary treatment, hoof care, safety checks, or emergency interventions. In those situations, perfect consent may not always be possible.
But that does not make consent irrelevant. It makes how we approach these moments even more important. If we must handle a horse, we owe them clear, calm presence, predictability, as much choice as circumstances allow, and real attention to their signals, not just the task at hand. Needing to act for a horse’s welfare does not give us a free pass to ignore their body, their fear, or their pain.
Horses cannot say no in words. Their consent shows up in subtler ways. Soft eyes instead of a hard stare. A lowered head rather than a braced neck. Relaxed breathing rather than held tension. Stepping toward you instead of away. Leaning into your hand rather than flinching from it.
Equally, their no is just as clear if we are willing to see it. Pinned ears. A tightened jaw. A swishing tail. A step back or a turn of the head. Stillness that is braced or frozen rather than relaxed. These are not attitude problems. They are communication.
Consider two everyday situations we often get wrong.
At the mounting block, a horse pins their ears as the rider prepares to get on. The common response is that he is just being grumpy, get on anyway. Yet ear pinning in this moment is one of the most frequent early signs of back, saddle, or muscular discomfort. When we dismiss it, we risk asking a horse to work for years in pain, teaching them that their signals do not matter.
Or think of a child running up to pet a tied horse. We culturally normalise this. He is gentle. He loves kids. It is fine. But a tied horse cannot move away. If they feel uncomfortable, crowded, or startled, their only option is to warn with their body or escalate to a bite or kick. When that happens, the horse is blamed, not the adults who created that situation.
What is most heartbreaking is this. Sometimes a horse finally meets a person who does notice their subtle signs, who slows down, pauses, and listens with their body as much as their mind. For a moment, there is relief. Recognition. Hope.
And then that person is told by others, often trainers, yard managers, or loud online voices, that they are being too soft, too emotional, or that the horse is manipulating them.
So the horse learns something devastating. Even when they are seen, they may still not be believed.
Yes, horses learn. They adapt to patterns, consequences, and expectations, just like we do. But learning is not the same as manipulation. A horse who steps away from a painful saddle, pins their ears when their back is sore, or freezes when overwhelmed is not scheming. They are protecting themselves with the tools they have. Discomfort is not strategy. It is survival.
This is not only about individual choices. There are real pressures in the horse world that make this harder. Lesson barns needing safe, reliable horses who tolerate a lot. Time constraints that discourage slow, attentive handling. Limited access to skilled veterinary or bodywork care. Training traditions that prioritise obedience over wellbeing. None of this excuses ignoring consent, but it explains why the problem is systemic, not just personal.
If we truly take consent seriously, small shifts can make a difference tomorrow. Pause before haltering and notice whether the horse offers their head or steps away. Allow a horse to step out of your space during grooming instead of trapping them. Take ear pinning, tail swishing, or tension seriously rather than correcting it. Investigate possible pain before labelling resistance as bad behaviour. Teach children and adults that not every horse wants to be touched.
So if you were a horse in a world that so often misunderstands your language, what would you do.
Perhaps the real question is what will we do.
Because true partnership does not begin with obedience. It begins with respect.
