BALANCING PRODUCTIVE STRUGGLE AND LEARNING

 Hello Hello!   I want to talk about something that I think we all wrestle with, whether we realize it or not - this delicate balance between challenging ourselves and our horses versus protecting ourselves and our horses. Between stepping into growth and stepping into overwhelm. Between productive struggle and harmful overfacing.

I've been thinking a lot about this lately, and I keep coming back to this simple, powerful statement from Glennon Doyle: "We can do hard things."

Four words. But there's so much packed into them. It's not "we must avoid hard things" or "hard things will break us." It's this quiet confidence - we can do hard things. Our horses can do hard things. Hard things are part of the journey, not obstacles that mean we've failed or gone off course.

But here's where it gets nuanced, right? Because we also know that there's a difference between appropriate challenges and damaging overwhelm. Between asking our horses to stretch and pushing them to a breaking point. Between stepping out of our comfort zones and overfacing ourselves to the point where we shut down or get hurt.

So how do we know the difference? How do we navigate that space between challenge and catastrophe or failure?

I’ll start by talking about comfort zones for a minute. I think a lot of us have been taught, either explicitly or implicitly, that comfort zones are the goal. That if we're uncomfortable, something's wrong. That our job as trainers, as riders, as horse people, as humans is to make everything smooth and easy and calm for our horses and for ourselves.

And I understand where that comes from. We love our horses. We want them to feel safe with us. We don't want to cause them stress or fear. Those are good instincts.

But comfort zones are meant to be temporary shelters that can expand over time, not permanent homes that stay small.

If we always seek calm waters, we never learn to navigate storms. If we never step into discomfort, we never develop resilience, problem-solving skills, confidence in our ability to handle challenges. This is true for us, and it's true for our horses.

There's this concept in Buddhist philosophy about suffering - not suffering as torture or abuse, but suffering as the inevitable discomfort that comes with being alive and growing. The first noble truth acknowledges that life includes difficulty, dissatisfaction, challenges. And rather than denying them or trying to avoid those at all costs, the path forward involves understanding them, working with them, learning from them.

Our suffering is sacred. It's where we learn. It's where transformation happens.

I'm NOT advocating for making our horses miserable - that's not what I'm saying at all. What I'm talking about is the difference between productive struggle and destructive overwhelm. Between an appropriate challenge that leads to growth, and inappropriate pressure that leads to trauma.

So what does productive struggle actually look like?

First, it's appropriately scaled. We're not asking for something so far beyond current ability that success is impossible. We're asking for a stretch, not a leap into the void.

Second, there's support within the challenge. The horse isn't alone in figuring it out. We're there, providing guidance, clarity, encouragement. But - and this is important - we're not micromanaging every step.

Third, mistakes are part of the process, not evidence of failure. This might be the most critical piece, and I want to spend some time here because I think this is where a lot of us get tripped up.

We're so afraid of our horses making mistakes. We're so afraid of making mistakes ourselves. So we try to control every variable, manage every step, prevent any possibility of getting it wrong.

But - the learning happens when we make mistakes.

If we micromanage so much that our horses never get anything wrong, we're not teaching them problem-solving skills. We're not teaching them confidence. We're teaching them to be dependent on us for every decision, every step - to not think it through.

The same is true in our own lives. If we only do things we already know how to do perfectly, if we never try anything where we might mess up, we never grow. We never develop resilience. We never learn that we can recover from mistakes, that mistakes are information rather than failure.

So what does this look like in practice? Let me give you a horse example.

I recently put up a video for my Monthly Journey members about teaching my stallion to jump barrels on the ground. Now, this was relatively new for him, and he was a little anxious about the whole situation. I could have led him over step by step, micromanaging the entire process to make sure he never made a wrong choice. But that's not what I did.

Instead, I set it up so he had a choice - he could go over the barrels or not. If he chose not to, we simply had to represent the question. We'd try again. But once he chose to go over them, or even just tried to go over them, we stopped, rested, and he got a treat.

The first time through, you could see him working it out. A little worried, a little uncertain. Trying to figure out what I was asking and whether he could do it. But he wasn't in trouble for his hesitation. The consequence for not going over wasn't anger or correction - it was just "okay, try again."

And when he tried - not even succeeded perfectly, but tried - immediate release. Rest. Treat. Acknowledgment that the effort, the willingness to engage with the puzzle, was what I was looking for.

The next time we approached those barrels? He volunteered it. Relaxed. Confident. He'd learned that he could figure things out with me. That his attempts were valued. That it was safe to try, safe to make mistakes, and even safe to be uncertain while he was learning.

This is what productive struggle looks like. He was uncomfortable at first - that anxiety was real. But it was appropriate discomfort, scaled to what he could handle, with support available, and permission to work through it at his own pace.

What would overfacing have looked like? Maybe forcing him with lots of pressure to jump over something genuinely scary without any preparation. Maybe punishing him for hesitation. Maybe pushing past his capacity to process and learn.

What would over-protecting have looked like? Never asking him to do anything that made him uncertain. Leading him over step by step so he never had to make a choice. Removing the challenge the moment I saw anxiety.

Neither extreme serves the learning. The growth happened in that middle space - the productive struggle.

This brings me to one of the Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz: "Always do your best."

There’s a key insight with that agreement - your best is different day to day, situation to situation. Your best when you're exhausted is different from your best when you're fresh. Your best with a green horse is different from your best with a seasoned partner. Your best on a windy day when everyone's a little on edge is different from your best in perfect conditions.

The same is true for our horses. Their best when they're worried about barrels is different from their best once they've figured it out and are confident. Their best on day one of learning something new is different from their best on day thirty.

If we hold ourselves and our horses to some fixed standard of "best" regardless of context, we set everyone up for failure and frustration. But if we can honor that effort looks different depending on circumstances, we create space for learning, for productive struggle, for growth that's real rather than performative.

So how do we actually practice this? How do we create opportunities for productive struggle without tipping into overfacing?

Here’s something practical and can be fun that you can try with your horses. In my Foundations course, one of the first exercises I teach is the Target exercise. It's simple to set up but rich in what it teaches both horse and human.

Here's how it works: You find something you'd like your horse to put their foot on or in - a feed bin works well, or a platform, something where they can't get stuck but where there's a clear goal. The objective is to send your horse to it - not lead them, send them - and then let them decide what to do once they get there.

Your job is to picture what you want in your mind. Get really clear on that intention - foot on the target, or foot in the bin, whatever you're asking for. Then you send them toward it and you give them "hot or cold" signals as they search for the answer.

What does that mean? When they're on the right track, you soften. You say yes with your body, your energy, your aids. When they drift away from the right answer, you give them a gentle "no" - maybe a shake of the rope, a little pressure, just information that they're getting colder.

And then you let them play with it. Let them try things. Let them make mistakes. Let them figure it out.

What this teaches your horse is huge - they learn to search for your soft aids, to read your support, to problem-solve with you as a guide rather than a dictator. They build confidence in their ability to figure things out. They learn that trying and missing isn't a disaster, it's just part of the process.

What this teaches you is equally valuable - you have to get clear on your intention before you ask. You have to learn to support without controlling. You have to resist the urge to micromanage every step and instead trust the process, trust your horse's ability to learn.

I've watched horses go from uncertain and dependent to confident and creative through this simple exercise. And I've watched humans learn patience, clarity, and the art of supporting without smothering.

This same concept translates directly to working with people. In our work environments, with our coworkers, even with our families - what if we got clear on the intention, the outcome we're looking for, but gave people space to approach it in their own way? What if we supported the search rather than dictating every step?

How much creativity would we unlock? How much ownership and investment would people have in solutions they got to discover rather than ones that were prescribed? How much more confident would everyone become in their own problem-solving abilities?

You know, I often have students tell me they had a rough session with their horse. Maybe it was a struggle day, things didn't go as planned, it felt hard and draining. And they come to me feeling bad about it, like they failed somehow.

And I always tell them the same thing: having a "bad" session is not a failure. It just means you've discovered something that needs work.

That's actually valuable information. That's your horse telling you something. That's the training process showing you where the next layer of learning lives.

Now, here's my rule - always end on a good note, even if that means doing something really easy. If you've been struggling with something challenging, find something your horse knows well, something they can do with confidence, and end there. Let them leave the session feeling successful. Let yourself leave feeling like you finished on solid ground.

Then prepare for the next session. Get curious about what happened. What was the struggle actually about? Was it a communication issue? A confidence issue? A physical limitation you hadn't recognized? Do you need support - a trainer's eye, a friend to watch, a different approach?

This is where your next growth will come from - both yours and your horse's. Not from the sessions where everything goes perfectly and feels easy. Those are lovely, don't get me wrong. But they're not where the learning edge is.

The sessions that feel hard? The ones where you discover something isn't working the way you thought it would? Those are gold mines of information if we can shift our perspective from "I failed" to "I learned something important."

This goes back to that idea of mistakes being part of the process. A rough session is trying something that didn't work, getting information about what needs attention, and having the opportunity to adjust and try again.

The horses that become the most solid, reliable partners? They're not the ones who never had a struggle day. They're the ones whose people stuck with them through the struggle days, stayed curious instead of defeated, ended on good notes, and came back with a plan.

You know what else I hear from students sometimes? "I don't want to mess this horse up." Or even worse - I've had students tell me that a trainer said to them, "Don't mess your horse up."

And I want to say this clearly: Don't be afraid to mess it all up!

I know that sounds counterintuitive. But think about what that fear does - it paralyzes us. We become so afraid of doing the wrong thing that we do nothing. Or we only do things we're absolutely certain about, which means we never explore, never experiment, never discover what might work in a way we hadn't imagined.

I'm not saying be reckless. I'm not saying ignore your horse's feedback or throw principles out the window. What I'm saying is - as long as we have solid foundations and clear principles to fall back to when things don't go right, I want to see students and horses get creative and try things!

Make mistakes. Pay attention. Be present. Listen to what your horse or mule is saying and adjust and learn.

This is how we develop as horsemen and horsewomen - not by following a recipe so precisely that we never deviate, but by understanding principles deeply enough that we can play with application, try things, notice what works and what doesn't, and adjust accordingly.

Your horse isn't going to be ruined because you tried something that didn't work, as long as you're paying attention and willing to adjust. What might actually limit both of you is being so afraid of messing up that you never venture into the creative, experimental space where real breakthroughs happen.

Some of my best training moments have come from trying something, having it not work the way I expected, and then discovering something completely different in the process. That only happens when we give ourselves permission to not know exactly how it's going to go before we start.

So yes - have your foundations. Know your principles. Stay safe, stay fair, stay present. And then don't be afraid to mess it all up. That's where the magic lives.

Let me give you an example of this from outside the horse world. Years ago, I was working for the Forest Service as a unit instructor for an upper-level fire behavior course. And I was looking at the way we were building this particular unit, and I just didn't feel like it was going to teach what really needed to be taught.

Fire behavior analysis isn't about following a recipe. It's about experimentation and interpretation - you have to be able to really SEE the entire situation, to read conditions, to think creatively and adapt. But the unit we'd built felt way too prescribed. Do this, then that, what's your answer - like there was one correct path through complex, dynamic situations.

So two nights before the unit was supposed to run, I proposed something to my team and the cadre of instructors: What if we leave it loose? What if we give a few scenarios and let the students work through them without having "correct" answers pre-determined?

At this point in the course, the students had the tools. They had the foundations. They had the knowledge. What they needed was permission and space to experiment with applying it.

Somehow - and I'm still a little amazed by this - the cadre agreed. My team was on board. And we were all nervous about how it would go, but we were also excited. We launched it. Never tested it. Just let it go.

Forty students worked through those scenarios. And the results were awesome. Every response was slightly different, but they were real and well thought out. The creativity that emerged, the discussions that came from comparing different approaches, the way students defended their reasoning and learned from each other's interpretations - those were huge learning moments for everyone involved, instructors included.

That's what happens when we trust the foundations and give people - or horses - space to figure things out. When we resist the urge to prescribe every step and instead support the learning process.

And yes, it required courage. It required trust - in the students, in the foundations we'd built, in the process itself. It would have been safer, more controlled, to stick with the prescribed unit. But it wouldn't have taught what actually needed to be taught.

The same is true in our work with horses. We can give them the foundations, the principles, the tools. And then we need to give them space to apply those in their own way, to experiment, to try things that might not work, to develop their own problem-solving abilities rather than just following our prescribed steps.

I want to be clear about something. This approach - allowing for productive struggle, giving space for mistakes, not micromanaging - this doesn't mean we throw our horses or ourselves into situations that are genuinely unsafe or far beyond current capability.

There's a difference between setting up a puzzle that's solvable with effort and setting up a scenario that's destined for failure or trauma.

So how do we know the difference?

First, we have to know our principles. What are our guardrails? What is our promise to our horses or mules about what we will do and what we won't do?

For me, that promise includes things like: I will stay curious and playful. I will listen to what you're telling me. I will set you up for success. I will be fair and clear. I won't punish you for not understanding. I won't ask you to do something that would harm you physically or emotionally.

You can read my full promise on my website, but the point is - having these clear principles gives us boundaries. They keep us from going into territory that crosses the line from productive struggle into harm. When we're uncertain about whether we're supporting learning or causing damage, we can come back to these guardrails and ask: Am I keeping my promise?

Second, we need to understand the basics of how we communicate. The six fundamental ways we interact with our horses: moving the hindquarters, moving the shoulders, going forward, going backward, adjusting the poll, and adjusting the ribcage.

These aren't just techniques - they're our language. If we don't have clear, consistent communication, we can't effectively support our horses through challenges. We can't give them good information. We can't help them understand what we're asking or let them know when they're on the right track.

This is part of that foundation I talked about - the principles and skills we fall back on when things get messy. If our communication is muddy or inconsistent, productive struggle becomes confusing struggle. But when we have these basics solid, we can support learning even when things get challenging.

Third, we have to know our horses. What's appropriately challenging for one horse might be overfacing for another. A confident, curious horse might thrive with more ambiguity and room to explore. A worried horse might need more support, clearer parameters, smaller steps.

This is where the art comes in - taking our principles and our communication skills and applying them to the individual in front of us. Not following a recipe, but understanding the horse well enough to know where their learning edge is.

Fourth, we have to be honest about our own skill level and support systems. Are we asking our horse to navigate something we don't have the skills to support them through? Do we have backup - a trainer's eye, a friend to watch, a different approach - if things get harder than expected?

And fifth, we watch the response. Productive struggle looks like trying, even if there's some uncertainty. It looks like engagement, even if there's effort involved. It looks like the horse staying in the conversation with us, searching for answers.

Overfacing looks like shutting down. Panic. Complete overwhelm where no learning can happen. If we see those responses, we've pushed too far, and we need to back up, simplify, provide more support.

This requires us to be present, to pay attention, to be honest about what we're seeing rather than what we wish we were seeing.

I think one of the reasons we struggle with this balance - between challenge and comfort, between growth and protection - is because we care so much. We love our horses. We don't want them to suffer. We don't want to be the cause of fear or pain.

And those are beautiful, important values to hold.

But I think sometimes we confuse all discomfort with harm. We think that if our horse is uncertain or has to work through something challenging, we've failed them.

And that's just not true.

Think about the most confident horses you know. The ones who handle new situations with curiosity rather than fear. The ones who trust their people and trust themselves. How did they get that way?

Not by being protected from every challenge. Not by having every decision made for them. They got that way by being supported through appropriate challenges. By learning that they could handle things. By discovering that uncertainty doesn't equal danger, that effort is valued, that mistakes are part of learning rather than evidence of failure.

The same is true for us as humans. The most resilient, capable people aren't the ones who've never faced difficulty. They're the ones who've learned to navigate difficulty. Who've made mistakes and recovered. Who've stepped out of their comfort zones and discovered they could handle more than they thought.

So what does this mean practically, day to day, in our work with horses?

It means we can ask for things that stretch our horses a little, that require them to think and try, without feeling like we're being cruel or unfair.

It means we can allow them to make mistakes in the learning process without jumping in to rescue them from every moment of uncertainty.

It means we can stay present and supportive while they work through challenges, rather than either abandoning them to figure it out alone or micromanaging every step so they never develop problem-solving skills.

It means we honor that our best and their best varies with circumstances, and we work with what's actually present rather than some idealized version of perfect performance.

It means we remember that calm waters are lovely for resting, but if we never venture into choppier seas, we never develop the skills to navigate them. And then when storms inevitably come - because life includes storms - we're unprepared.

But when we've practiced productive struggle, when we've learned that we and our horses can handle challenges, when we've built that confidence and resilience and trust? Then we can weather a lot. We can adapt. We can learn. We can grow.

I want to leave you with this thought: We can do hard things.

Not because hard things are inherently valuable - I'm not advocating for unnecessary difficulty or manufactured struggle.

But because hard things are inevitable. Growth requires us to step into the unknown. Learning requires us to try things we might get wrong. Becoming more of who we're meant to be requires us to leave behind the familiar and venture into new territory.

The question isn't whether we'll face hard things. The question is whether we'll face them with support, with clear intention, with permission to make mistakes, with the understanding that productive struggle is different from destructive overwhelm.

For our horses and for ourselves - we can do hard things. And in doing them, thoughtfully and with support, we become more capable, more confident, more resilient versions of ourselves.

So this week, I invite you to look for opportunities to practice this balance. Maybe it's trying that Target exercise and watching your horse discover their problem-solving abilities. Maybe it's allowing yourself to try something new where you might not be immediately perfect. Maybe it's giving a coworker or family member space to approach a problem in their own way rather than dictating the solution.

Notice where you might be over-protecting - yourself or your horse - from productive struggle. Notice where you might be pushing into overfacing territory. And see if you can find that sweet spot in the middle, where growth happens.

Remember - your suffering is sacred. It's where you learn. Not suffering as trauma or abuse, but suffering as the appropriate discomfort of stretching beyond where you've been before.

And always do your best, knowing that your best looks different every day, and that's okay. That's human. That's the journey.

Thanks for being here with me as we explore these ideas together. Until next time, happy riding, happy learning, and remember - we can do hard things.

Featured wisdom:

• Glennon Doyle: "We can do hard things"
• The Four Agreements: "Always do your best" (knowing your best changes daily)
• Buddhist concepts of suffering as teacher

Whether you're working with horses, leading teams, or navigating your own learning journey, this episode offers a framework for embracing challenge thoughtfully - with support, clear principles, and permission to be imperfect learners.

Mentioned in this episode:

• Foundations Course (includes the Target exercise)
• Monthly Journey membership
• My promise to horses (available on website)