Sometimes We Need to Be Held

Fall is one of my favourite seasons, and this Fall, in particular, has been absolutely beautiful.

I love watching the leaves change colour. It seems like there is something new to notice every day.

What I particularly love is how each tree seems to be doing its own thing.

One may be almost completely transformed into brilliant shades of red and orange, while the tree beside it is still green.

Not one tree is looking around and thinking, ‘Am I behind? Should I be changing faster? What are the other trees doing?’

They aren't trying to keep up, fit in, or gain anyone's approval.

They are simply being.

There is such freedom in this.

And when a leaf finally releases from a branch, it doesn't resist. It doesn't say, ‘No, I'm not ready. I need to stay here a little longer.’

When the time comes, it lets go.

Nature is such a powerful teacher.

On Saturday, I experienced this wisdom in a way I wasn't expecting when I attended A Day of Horse Medicine with Equine Therapist Susan Morel and a beautiful group of women.

The day invited us to connect with the horses, with nature, with one another—and ultimately, with ourselves.

Susan's approach to equine therapy is called herd immersion. Rather than approaching the horses or trying to make something happen, we enter their space respectfully and wait. If a horse wants to approach us, it will. If they don't, they don't.

No chasing. No forcing. No agenda.

Susan encouraged us to bring curiosity and an innocent mind to the experience. No expectations. Simply be present.

Susan taught us how horses communicate through body language, helping us notice the subtle ways they express themselves.

She also showed us how to connect with the horses through gentle, loving touch and massage—while paying close attention to whether the horse wanted and welcomed the touch. I really appreciated this. It was another beautiful lesson in slowing down, paying attention, respecting boundaries, and deepening our connection with the horses.

Susan encouraged us to have:
Deep breath. Soft belly. Open heart.

Those words stayed with me.

The first time we entered the field where the horses were, it took some time before any of them chose to engage with us.

We waited.

We watched.

We breathed.

We allowed.

Eventually, a horse named River approached our group.

River is the youngest horse in the herd, just four years old. He is curious and a little mischievous, with one brown eye and one blue eye. Something about his gaze is captivating.

River came over and stood beside me. He nudged and rubbed against me a little, and then he simply stayed.

I wasn't trying to make anything happen.

Neither was he.

We were just there together.

Susan, who is incredibly attuned, began asking me a few gentle questions about what I was experiencing.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, the tears came.

And River stayed.

Right by my side, in silence.

There was something very moving about feeling supported in this way—without words, without needing to explain anything.

Later, when we left the field and sat together in a circle, we had an opportunity to share our experiences.

I heard these words come out of my mouth:

‘I spend so much of my life holding space for other women. Right now, I feel like I need to be held.’

As soon as I said them, I knew they were true.

It was a relief to acknowledge that part of me longed to be held.

Not to be the facilitator. Not to have the answers. Not to take care of anyone else.

Just to receive.

To soften.

And I did feel held.

Held by River. Held by Susan. Held by the women around me.

It was beautiful and profound.

I experienced the power of letting go.

Throughout the day, we had more opportunities to be with the horses—always on their terms. And something fascinating happened.

The more we relaxed, the more they seemed drawn to us.

By the afternoon, instead of feeling like a group of women standing in a field observing horses, it felt as though we had become part of the herd.

Women and horses.

Connecting with one another.

Soul to soul.

Susan calls the horses four-legged shamans, and after my experiences with them, I understand why.

Something about being in their presence is humbling. They don't care about our accomplishments, our roles, our stories, or the image we present to the world.

They respond to what is here.

They are attuned to what is true.

They invite us into presence.

They reflect back what we need to see.

Perhaps they remind us of something we have forgotten—that underneath all of our doing, striving, and planning, there is a quieter part of us that knows how to simply be.

When I left the farm and drove along the gravel roads, I noticed the autumn colours lining both sides.

I had seen those same trees on the way in, but somehow, they looked different.

The colours seemed more vibrant.

My mind was quieter.

My body was deeply relaxed.

My soul felt nourished.

Nothing outside of me had changed.

But something inside me had softened.

Maybe that is one of the gifts of presence.

When we stop trying so hard to make life happen, we begin to notice the life that is already happening all around us.

The leaves changing in their own time.

A horse choosing to stand beside us.

Tears that come without explanation.

A body softening.

A heart opening.

And realizing we don't always have to hold everything together. Sometimes we can simply allow ourselves to be held.

I am deeply grateful for this sacred experience.

Susan is offering another A Day of Horse Medicine on Saturday, October 24th, for a small group, and a few spots remain. If you feel drawn to experiencing this beautiful work for yourself, you can reach out to her directly here.

With love,

Diane