February 26, 2026 
I was on a writing retreat in a tourist town, dining with a few generous strangers, when one asked what I was working on.
“I’m writing a book about horses,” I told them.
The woman next to me smiled enthusiastically and asked, “How do you get your information?”
Puzzled, I responded, “Ask the question again so I can answer better.”
“Well,” she continued, “I am an animal communicator, so I was wondering how you get your information about horses.”
Taken aback by her unusual response, I explained that I write personal essays, and my work is as much about the people who love equines as it is about the animals themselves.
Then I changed the subject. I began asking her questions. My insides bristled at the strangeness, but I wanted to go into the conversation open-hearted.
“Do the animals communicate in images?”
“Do you have to be with them, or can you be far away?”
“Do you normally work with sport horses?”
This wasn’t the first time I had met someone who told me they could psychically speak to animals, and it likely won’t be my last. I have engaged in or been adjacent to plenty of spiritual practices around horses. I have heard the hymns of cowboy church harmonize in the rafters at horse expos. I have cleaned stalls while someone cantered around an arena in a blinged-out western saddle, leading a Christian service through an expensive headset. I have read the Tao of Equus and watched The Horse Whisperer.
There is a reason the Celtic goddess of horses is also the queen of the underworld, and why the Inca thought the steeds of the Spanish were gods. It’s the same reason that little girls love unicorns and that we still use horses in funeral processions.
In Gulliver’s Travels, Gulliver is spiritually altered by his time with the Houyhnhnms, a tribe of horses that are more measured and civilized than their human counterparts. In fact, these animals change him so much that when he finally returns home, he forsakes his family and spends most of his time with the household beast of burden.
I think the reason horses are often the portal between the physical world and the spirit world is partly that they are among the rare animals that put up with our crap and let us climb on their backs. But I also think it is something else. Something unnamable, perhaps otherworldly.
I found myself caught between two truths as I listened to this animal communicator speak.
The first is that the mysteries of the world are part of what makes life worth living. Who was I to tell this woman she was or wasn’t communing with her neighbor’s barrel horse on some higher plane? If she helped other people and found joy in her work, so be it.
After all, I like tarot readings and star charts. I have waved sage in my house at the start of a new year. I have watched for signs from the universe, found awe in the woods, and gone to mass. I am more spiritual than I like to admit, even if writing it down makes my practical side wince. I know that I don’t know much, and maybe some people can speak to animals.
The second truth is that, at least on the surface, animal communicators promise a quick fix. Like duct tape, ChatGPT, Instagram ads, and cult-leader-like trainers, they are alluring because they promise speedy, simple solutions to big, complicated problems. The problem is, most complicated problems are not easy to solve—they usually involve grindingly slow hard work and painful self-reflection.
This is precisely one of the biggest gifts horses have ever given me: the constant demand to reflect on my own behavior.
I have a big personality that takes up a lot of space and energy, and with my mare, this works great. She is a horse that, if she could, would leave pissed-off Yelp reviews. Our love languages are compromise, treats, and chest-thumping. If I paid my dinner companion for a session with my mare, I doubt the communicator would be comfortable repeating all the swear words.
My gelding, on the other hand, is the exact opposite.
Because of him, I have learned to regulate my emotions in ways I never thought I possible. If I used the same assertiveness with him that I use on the mare, he would explode in every direction. This doesn’t mean I shouldn’t work on encouraging his bravery, but it does mean that I need to pay attention to when and how I apply pressure.
All he wants is to feel safe, to be told he is a good boy, and, hopefully, to get a cuddle. The trouble is, I am not a cuddly person. Affectionate? Sure. Warm? You bet. I am so gregarious that it can be a safety hazard. I am not cuddly. I hate hugs, and my cat knows I prefer it when he sits next to me instead of on my lap. Nevertheless, for the gelding and my boyfriend, I try to make exceptions.
To be clear, I don’t think animal communicators are bad. I do think, however, we should learn as much of the equine language as we can ourselves. Even if equines communicate nonverbally, their language is learnable like any other language—it just takes commitment, humility, and endless mistakes. And like any other relationship, we must be willing to quiet our inner noise and pay attention.
Most importantly, learning to ride a horse well takes time—hours and hours and hours of practice, practice, practice. A psychic can supplement the time, but she can’t replace it.
Ultimately, our time with horses is also where we find meaning—and that is something I am not willing to give up.
