01/03/2026
One of the first horses I worked with when I arrived from the Netherlands in the US was an opinionated chestnut mare.
When her young owner, Margaret, brought her home, she did what many thoughtful, well-intentioned new owners do. She trusted the system. She followed professional advice. She tried to do right by her horse.
Keely, however, arrived in an environment that didn’t suit her. A sensitive, hot, chestnut, half-Arabian mare was first placed into a strict, traditional hunter jumper barn and then temporarily isolated without other horses. Without the social and environmental regulation she needed, Keely became anxious and reactive. She became panicked and explosive, spooking at everything, breaking cross ties. Riding her felt like riding a ticking time bomb.
Very quickly, Keely was labeled.
“Crazy.”
“Explosive.”
“Difficult.”
The more misunderstood she became, the more the focus shifted toward control. Harsher bits. Stronger punishment. More pressure. Riding harder to push through the behavior. Wet sadddle pads and chains over noses was the advice. None of it addressed what was actually happening. Riding turned into rearing and spinning.
This all did not sit well with Margaret. Young as she was at the time, she cared deeply about Keely and knew, even without the language yet, that something wasn’t adding up. She continued searching for answers. She moved barns so Keely could live outside. She explored different trainers. She kept adjusting, learning, trying to find a way that honored both her horse and her own values, but something was not clicking.
By the time she called me, this wasn’t about fixing a horse.
It was about understanding one.
When I first met Keely, I didn’t see a problem horse. I saw a tight ball of nerves filled with adrenaline and cortisol. I recognized a nervous system that had been trying very hard to communicate.
So we slowed everything way down. We adjusted the saddle. We softened hands. Removed the nose band. We stopped holding her together and started letting her organize herself. We introduced clicker training, reward, curiosity, and choice. Instead of managing or leading, we began listening.
And slowly something shifted.
At some point during our work together, Margaret made an important discovery. She learned exactly what made Keely feel safe and settled.
Before every ride, she began spending time with her without an agenda. Standing together. Sharing space. Taking a gentle walk. Letting Keely arrive mentally before asking her to work. That simple practice began to change the tone of everything that followed. The long and low groundwork became truly regulating, not a game of dominance. The rides softened instead of following the text books. Both horse and human learned how to relax. And with relaxation, enjoyment carefully entered the ride.
Sometimes slowing down is the fastest way forward.
When Keely bucked, it wasn’t attitude. It was information.
When she resisted, it wasn’t defiance. It was feedback.
Once we listened, there was nothing left to fight.
The work that followed wasn’t traditional. It wasn’t neat. It didn’t fit nicely into a textbook. Keely needed medical support for her physical issues that were discovered. She required gentle consistency, and a pattern that worked for her. As things came into coherence, she softened. She became engaged and expressive. She began seeking and sustaining eye contact with soft eyes and ears forward. She began walking up in the pasture instead of leaving. Grooming became something they both enjoyed. Riding became a place of connection rather than stress.
Years later, Margaret reflected on everything they had built together. “For the first time in years, I’m happy at the barn. And I’m happy because Keely is happy.”
Keely and Margaret went on to do all the things Margaret once hoped for. Collected canter. Jumps. Cross-country schooling. Even a dressage show with a ribbon. But more importantly, they grew very close. They learned to understand and trust each other, found common ground, and Keely lived the rest of her life understood.
After ten years of retirement, I just learned that this beautiful, spunky mare passed away shortly before Christmas.
I mourn her. I loved her sass and her honesty. Riding Keely was always a continuous conversation.:
How is this?
Can you do this?
Yes? Okay, great.
What about that?
No? Okay, then what about this?
Is this better?
Ah, wonderful. This is good. Let's do more of this, okay?
She was always honest. She always answered. And we listened.
I am deeply grateful for what she taught me through that process.
In many ways, Keely was part of the birth of EquineFlow. She helped clarify something I kept seeing again and again. So many horses, and so many people, are judged, labeled, and diagnosed as “crazy,” when in reality they are expressing exactly what a healthy nervous system does when needs go unmet. Sometimes briefly. Sometimes for a very long time.
Keely wasn’t difficult. She was honest.
And she taught all of us what becomes possible when we stop overpowering signals and start listening to them.
Thank you, Keely. And thank you, Margaret, for trusting an opinionated chestnut mare and giving her the life she deserved.
