12/13/2025
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Over the past year or two, I’ve made a subtle but significant shift in my routine at the barn, and the impact on my horses—and also on myself—has been profound.
Growing up in a weekly lesson program, it was instilled in me early on that you always look after your horse first. And of course, that’s a value I still hold dear.
But—
There’s another piece to this picture. One that perhaps only becomes clear with time and experience:
A horse who is accustomed to being tended to immediately, in every moment, can become a horse who expects things to happen quickly… and who gets uneasy when they don’t.
I’m not necessarily talking about the most obvious examples, like the horse who dances all over the crossties, or the horse who throws a stall-banging tantrum at dinner time.
I’m talking about the horse who stands politely for harnessing, but the moment you mount the carriage, he’s asking to walk on.
The horse who waits patiently while you unhook, but as soon as he feels those shafts pop free, he's ready to head for the barn right now.
I’m talking about the horse who keeps you in a constant state of motion because he always has his head up and ears pricked, anticipating the next thing you will do for him.
This horse isn't being "bad," but he does keep you on your toes.
He’s polite, but never fully settled.
You have no breathing room.
We live in such a fast-paced world that we often don’t even notice our habit of staying in perpetual motion. But our horses notice. They feel that subtle hum of hurry—even when we think we’re calm—and they mirror it back to us in ways that get described as “spirited,” “eager,” or “fussy.”
For many years, my routine looked something like this:
1. Pull out and prepare the carriage
2. Set up the arena
3. Organize my brushes and harness in the grooming area
4. Bring my horse into the grooming area
5. Brush my horse, pick his feet, and tidy his mane and tail
6. Harness my horse
7. Put on my helmet and gloves
8. Bridle my horse and fasten the reins
9. Go outside and hook to the carriage
10. Mount the carriage and drive on
It was a smooth and efficient routine, but notice the pattern: Everything that didn’t directly involve the horse was done before he was brought in. Subconsciously, my routine was dictated by the philosophy of minimizing the horse's "waiting time."
And because I always kept my horse as the central priority in every moment, he learned to expect that, too. He learned that the next thing always came right on the heels of the last.
He rarely experienced that quiet in-between space: the simple, settling moment where nothing is required of him and nothing happens next until it happens.
Only later did I realise how much my desire to be considerate—to never inconvenience him, never leave him standing idle—had actually created a horse who didn’t know how to rest in the routine.
These days, my routine looks more like this:
1. Bring my horse in and give him a brush down
2. Set up the arena
3. Pick my horse’s feet and tidy his mane and tail
4. Harness my horse
5. Pull out and prepare the carriage
6. Bridle my horse
7. Put on my helmet
8. Fasten the reins
9. Put on my gloves
10. Go outside and hook to the carriage
11. Mount the carriage and sit quietly. I might take a few minutes to fire up the GoPro camera or answer a text message.
12. Drive on
Notice how all the same tasks are included, but now I alternate between giving my attention to my horse and letting him quietly wait his turn.
Nothing is rushed.
Nothing is urgent.
My horse stands, relaxed and content, because waiting is no longer unusual or uncomfortable for him.
Some days, I weave small farm chores throughout the routine – refilling feed bins, topping up the goats’ hay, or other tasks that I would otherwise need to do later.
After our drive, I unhitch as usual—and then, more often than not, I let him stand quietly while I put the cover back on the carriage and tuck it away for the night. It saves me a trip later, and it gives him a chance to soften, breathe, and simply exist for a moment after our work together.
In fact, my Belgian gelding, Tony, has gotten into the habit of taking the opportunity to empty his bladder during these couple minutes’ pause outside, which is surely more pleasant for everybody than his previous habit of peeing in the barn aisle. But beyond the obvious convenience, it’s a sign of how at ease he’s become with this slower, steadier rhythm.
On days when I am working multiple horses, I can extend this idea even further, allowing each to wait while I work another.
My overall barn time hasn’t changed; it’s simply the reordering of things that creates an incredible amount of peace and calm.
And that, ultimately, is the heart of this shift: By breaking the cycle of instant gratification, we eliminate the expectation of constant urgency, replacing anticipation with peaceful acceptance.
I haven’t changed what I do with my horses—only how I move through the routine. By weaving in small pauses, alternating between moments of attention and moments of quiet waiting, I’ve given my horses a new experience: the opportunity to settle inside the work, not just move through it.
It’s remarkable what unfolds when waiting becomes normal.
Horses soften.
Humans soften.
The whole energy of the day softens.
My horses no longer feel the pressure of my constant motion, and I no longer feel the pressure of their anticipation. There’s space for both of us to breathe. There’s room for thoughtfulness instead of hurry. There’s a sense of shared steadiness that carries through the drive, into the barn, and even into the rest of my day.
Most of us would never describe ourselves as rushed or frantic in our horsemanship. We care deeply, we’re attentive, and we want to do right by our horses.
But in trying so hard to never inconvenience them, we sometimes forget that a truly relaxed horse is one who has learned to wait—without tension, without worry, without the expectation that something should be happening right now.
When we give our horses the gift of unhurried moments, we teach them something far more valuable than any single skill:
We teach them to feel safe in stillness.
We teach them that the world won’t always push them forward.
We teach them that rest is part of the work.
And, perhaps most unexpectedly, we teach ourselves the same thing.
