31/08/2026
YOUR HORSE IS LISTENING. WHAT IS YOUR BODY ACTUALLY SAYING?
Last week another wonderful schoolmaster told me, quite clearly, that I was saying âstopâ with my body in the saddle.
It wasnât anything overly dramatic, but I heard his ânothingâ response loud and clear. I thought I asked quite nicely for him to walk on, applying a correct forward aid, with no response. I canât even get this horse to walk? I got frustrated, embarrassed and then started down the familiar mental path of âyouâre such a terrible riderâ that shows up in my body as more tension, holding back the tears of being found out as a âbad riderâ once again.
Letâs get real here, Iâve been a physiotherapist and âmovement expertâ for a long time now. I built the tests I use to assess riders for mobility, stability and symmetry, and I can pass them with flying colours. The easy story here would be that I just need to be stronger, use the whip, and be âtougherâ to just make it happen. These well-trained horses are not telling me Iâm weak, theyâre telling me that my body is not making sense to them, I am not speaking their language, and in this instance, theyâre the experts.
I know that feeling of not speaking the language, having lived in both Lisbon and Shanghai, with just enough of the local language to order a coffee and find a bathroom. When my vocabulary ran out, I never once solved the problem by saying the same broken sentence louder. Saying the same nonsense at higher volume doesn't make it more Chinese, it just makes me a dumb, loud foreigner. What actually worked was slowing down the words, finding someone to help translate, and looking for small points of shared understanding until something actually landed.
I have a hunch that we can think of skilled performance in riding as a similar problem, played out through the body instead of the mouth. When a schoolmaster doesn't respond to my "correct" aid, the problem usually isn't commitment, or body capacity. It's pronunciation. My timing, my sequencing, or my body's default tension is saying something slightly different from what I intend, and the horse is responding to what I actually said, not what I meant to say. Riding with stronger aids in that moment is the equivalent of shouting broken Chinese. It doesn't add clarity, it just adds emphasis to the wrong sentence.
I wonder about two different questions often: when is a rider effective, and when is a rider ethical?
âEffectiveâ asks whether the rider can get the horse to use its body in the way we desire. âEthicalâ asks whether that change came at a cost to the horse's health and welfare, in the short or long term. In theory, these ideas should line up perfectly. A rider whose aids are clear and consistent should be building a horse's strength and confidence over time, improving their welfare over their lifetime. In practice, this is where a lot of training goes wrong, because force and strength can look like effectiveness in the short term. Horses are so incredibly generous that theyâll usually comply if theyâre shouted at loud enough, but at a cost. Itâs a humbling and difficult path for a rider to carefully look at their own vocabulary and comprehension, and learn to speak more fluently, for the good of the horse.
If we treated rider body skill as a language rather than a set of strength requirements, I think we'd train very differently. Less "hold this position more firmly," and more "here is what your body is currently saying when you hold your breath and brace your body." I think we should be aiming to train riderâs bodies to be capable of ease of movement, fast timing and release of effort, not focussing on force production capacity in the way that athletes have traditionally trained.
When I was living in China, I used to think the people who spoke fluent Chinese were somehow smarter than me. Turns out most of them had studied it formally, or lived for years in smaller cities with almost no English, which forced the skill out of them whether they liked it or not. I also met expats who'd lived there a decade and hadn't progressed much further than me. They'd built a comfortable bubble, got around just fine, and never noticed what they were missing, the deeper, more nuanced parts of the culture that only open up once you're actually fluent.
I think riding offers the same two paths. You can build a bubble, get by on strength and compensation, and most horses, being generous, will let you. Or you can do the harder thing, actually study the language of your body, put in the hours of immersion, and develop the fluency that lets you hear what a horse is telling you before anyone has to raise their voice. This schoolmaster wasn't telling me I was a "bad rider." He was telling me I wasn't fluent yet, that's all. There's a world of difference between "not yet skilled" and "not good enough." One is a stage. The other is a verdict, and it's the one that had me blinking back tears in the saddle over a halt-to-walk transition.
I'm curious where else you've handed yourself that verdict too early? On a horse, in a new job, in a language you were only three months into learning. What did it take to realise you weren't failing, you just hadn't finished learning yet?