You Don’t Push, You Invite
Lessons in Trust, Guidance, and Letting Go—from a Mentor and Her Horses
I arrived just after noon, with over an hour to spare before our 1:30 meeting. The air was sharp and cold as I stepped into the East Blvd Starbucks, where the usual hum of conversation was replaced by the lively chatter of kids, likely enjoying the day off for Martin Luther King Jr. Day.
I ordered an Impossible Breakfast Sandwich and a latte, settling by the window with my MacBook open, diving into prep for my Mentorship in Action workshop.
Kaitlyn messaged—five minutes late.
“No rush,” I replied.
We reconnected last month, on December 16th, during a conversation about mentorship—not the abstract kind, but real human stories. That’s when her mentor Kathy and the horses came up, leading us to this moment.
When she arrived, we hugged.
I offered to get her a coffee, but she reminded me that I had paid last time and insisted on buying me one instead.
Kaitlyn had always radiated a sunny, generous energy, someone naturally inclined to make others feel comfortable. Today, she seemed friendly and warm, with a calm attentiveness that felt grounded.
She began by mentioning her boyfriend—a gentle boundary, a bit of context, quietly framing the conversation.
Then, she shifted into the story, the one I’d been waiting to hear.
The story began simply, with an older woman and a young girl.
Kathy, in her mid-to-late forties, had moved to Idaho with her horses.
Kaitlyn, barely a teenager, was obsessed.
It started as lessons—engaging and practical, but Kathy had a way of teaching that didn’t always feel like teaching.
She gave Kaitlyn what we came to call ‘commandments’ during our conversation—rules that weren’t about what to do, but about how to live:
Don’t compare.
Sometimes you’re not supposed to understand why.
Just believe.
Kaitlyn remembered hearing those words in 2004, sitting on a hay bale in the barn, listening as Kathy spoke.
“At the time, I thought I understood them—they felt true, even if I couldn’t fully explain why.”
But the years deepened those words.
“Don’t compare” became a reminder to trust her own path instead of measuring herself against others.
“Sometimes you’re not supposed to understand why” softened her need for certainty, teaching her to sit with ambiguity.
And “Just believe”—that one stayed with her the longest. It wasn’t about blind faith, but about trust.
“In the horse, in the process, in myself,” Kaitlyn said.
Lessons were not cheap, but she found another way.
Another way to stay close to the horses.
Fixing fences, hauling hay, loading horses into trailers for long drives.
There was no formal arrangement, no clock ticking off hours.
“It was just whenever I was there,” Kaitlyn said.
The bond grew quietly, through shared work and unspoken trust.
When Kathy decided to take Kaitlyn across the country, there was no big discussion, no hesitation.
It simply happened, the kind of trust that didn’t need words.
One of those trips took them to California, the trailer rattling behind Kathy’s truck, the air thick with the smell of hay and leather.
Kaitlyn remembered the long stretches of road, the way Kathy could drive in silence for hours.
“She wasn’t the kind of person who filled space unnecessarily,” Kaitlyn said, her voice steeped in memory.
It was during that trip that Kathy took her to the Bodhi Tree bookstore.
“It was this spiritual place,” Kaitlyn explained, her tone hesitant but deliberate.
Bookshelves packed with titles about enlightenment, ego, and the art of letting go.
“At the time, I hated it,” she admitted, her mouth curving into a half-smile.
“I was so mad she’d brought me there,” Kaitlyn said, shaking her head. “It didn’t make sense. It felt… forced to come, I guess.”
She shook her head, the teenage frustration still palpable after all these years.
Then she shifted into the heart of it: the riding.
“At first, you’re consumed by your own movement,” she said. “Are my heels down? Is my posture correct? Am I giving the right signal with the reins?”
The words came easily, almost like a rhythm she’d repeated to herself countless times.
“But as you get better, you stop thinking about yourself so much. You start feeling the horse.”
Her hands moved instinctively, as if tracing invisible reins.
“You notice the way their body moves under yours—the stretch and flex of their joints, the rhythm of their breath. It’s not about control. It’s about connection.”
She paused, her gaze steady, but somewhere far off.
“At an advanced level, you and the horse are one.
You’re not separate anymore. The focus shifts completely to the horse, and you just… move together.”
The café’s sounds softened, her words cutting through the stillness.
“You don’t push,” she said, with calm emphasis. “You invite.”
It wasn’t just a statement—it felt like a quiet truth, carried long after she left the barn.
I asked her what it took to reach that level.
“Patience,” she said, without hesitation. “And a willingness to let go.
You have to get out of your own way. If you’re riding with ego, the horse knows.
They feel it immediately, and they’ll push back. You have to let that part of yourself go.”
She paused, her gaze lowering to the coffee cup in her hands, swirling the last bit in the bottom.
For a moment, she seemed lost in the memory.
“That’s what Kathy taught me,” she said finally, her tone threaded with deep wisdom.
“It wasn’t something she ever said outright. It was in the way she worked.
The way she treated the horses—and the way she treated me.”