The day has drained you. Work was a battle, people were demanding, and now home awaits with its own list of chores. You stop at the barn first, your sanctuary. As you walk the aisle, your horse meets you at the gate, a soft nicker of welcome breaking the quiet. At that moment, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter. You feel special, chosen. You tie your horse and begin the familiar ritual. They stand perfectly still as you brush away the dust of the day and slide the saddle pad into place. You glance around the barn, a wave of pride washing over you. Your horse is so well-behaved. You imagine the admiration of others, a silent confirmation of your skill and your horse’s worthiness. This is what it’s all about. The ride is wonderful, a glorious escape that recharges your battery, making you feel ready to face the week. Afterward, you untack your sweaty partner and offer a cookie, a reward for being so good. As you walk them back to their paddock, you remove their halter and scratch their favorite spot on the neck. Leaning in, you whisper, “I love you so much.”
But let’s stay with that moment for just a second longer. You’ve just whispered, “I love you so much.” Let’s gently ask what that love is built on. Would you still love your horse if they had chosen to keep eating their hay, ignoring you at the gate? If, at that moment, they clearly preferred the company of their herd-mates to yours? Would that love still feel as strong? What if the day’s stress wasn’t so easily washed away? What if your horse was too nervous to stand still for tacking up, their anxiety mirroring your own? What if other people in the barn weren’t looking on with admiration, but with judgment? Would your love hold steady then, or would it curdle into frustration? And what happens when the ultimate test arrives? When a vet delivers the news that your horse is “unridable,” their purpose in your eyes suddenly stripped away? When they are “reduced” to a pasture ornament, a being you simply care for? This is the heart of the question. Would you still love them if they could no longer be your escape, your partner, your de-stressor? If they could no longer charge your batteries for the week, but instead, only drained them? Could you love them if they were nothing more than a horse, under your care, with nothing left to give you but their simple, silent presence?
So, if those questions hit a little too close to home, if you’re feeling a knot of guilt forming in your stomach, please take a deep breath. This isn’t about pointing fingers and assigning blame. It’s about understanding. The truth is, you didn’t invent this pattern. You inherited it. We live in a world that relentlessly conditions us to see relationships, all relationships, as transactional. From the time we’re young, we’re taught to measure our worth by our productivity, our achievements, and our “usefulness.” Our value is tied to our grades, then our job title, our salary, the car in the driveway. We are constantly being told, consciously or not, that we are what we do and what we accomplish. It’s no wonder this mindset seeps into the most sacred parts of our lives, including our time with our horses. This pattern runs incredibly deep. It’s the same psychological drive that makes us check our phone for the number of likes on a post, seeking that little hit of validation. It’s the voice in our head that says we’re “good” when we have a productive day and “lazy” when we rest. We are trained to seek validation through external performance, both our own and that of others, including the animals we love. When our horse performs well, we feel good. When they don’t, we feel a sense of failure. It’s a deeply ingrained human pattern, not a personal failing. Bringing this pattern into our relationship with our horses isn’t a sign of being a “bad” person or a “bad” owner. It’s a sign of being a person navigating a world that constantly pushes you to prove your worth. The most important, and truly the most courageous, thing you can do is simply have the honesty to look at it without judgment. To see the pattern for what it is, a relic of societal pressure and not a reflection of your heart. That awareness is the very first step on the path to a different kind of love.
But let’s be clear. This is not about choosing one kind of love over the other. It is not an either/or proposition. The love you feel for how your horse makes you feel is not a flaw. It is the joy. It is the spark that gets you to the barn on a cold morning, the pride in a shared accomplishment, the glorious escape that recharges your soul. This love of the experience is a beautiful and powerful part of the bond. It is the part that makes the relationship rewarding for you, and that is a wonderful, necessary thing. The problem only arises when this love of experience is the only thing holding the relationship up.
The goal is not to eliminate that feeling, but to build something stronger beneath it. Think of it as two loves that must coexist. There is the love of the experience, and then there is the love of the being. The love of the being is the bedrock. It is the love that shows up when the ride is impossible, when the behavior is challenging, when the vet bill is high. It is the love that finds peace not in a perfect canter depart, but in simply watching your horse graze, a living, breathing creature deserving of care, just as they are. This is the love that is rooted in empathy and responsibility, the commitment that says, “I am here for you, regardless of what you can do for me.”
A truly healthy and resilient partnership is built when the love of the experience is built firmly upon the foundation of the love of the being. When the bedrock is secure, the joy of the ride becomes a celebration of trust, not a measure of worth. The pride in their good behavior is deeper because you know it comes from a place of comfort, not compliance. When your love for them as a being is unconditional, the shared activities become beautiful gifts you give each other, rather than transactions you must fulfill. This is the heart of a force free, positive reinforcement philosophy. It is a commitment to their emotional balance, proving you value them for who they are, not just for what they can do. This is how you build a bond that can weather any storm.
So, the next time you walk down that barn aisle, I invite you to try something. Before you even reach for the halter, just stand with your horse for a moment. Let the world of schedules and expectations fall away. Look into their eyes, not as a rider looking at their mount, but as one being looks at another. Ask yourself that question again, but this time without fear: Do I love you? Or do I love how you make me feel?
The most beautiful answer you can arrive at is, “I love you. And everything else, the rides, the goals, the joy, is simply a wonderful gift that you choose to share with me.” When you can stand in that truth, the pressure evaporates. The need for validation from a perfect ride or a calm moment disappears. You are no longer a performer seeking approval; you are a partner offering care. Your horse is no longer a tool for your well being; they are a cherished friend who sometimes offers you the gift of their presence.
That shift in perspective is the beginning of a true partnership. It is the moment the transactional contract is torn up and a sacred bond is formed in its place. It is the freedom to love them on their good days and their bad days, their rideable days and their pasture ornament days. It is the greatest love you can ever give your horse, and in doing so, you may just find it is the greatest peace you can ever give yourself.