🐴 When Trust Trembles

There’s a rhythm to mustang trust training — a rhythm that doesn’t always move forward. Some days, it feels like harmony. Other days, it feels like a song that suddenly forgets its melody.

Not long after the moment I shared in Floki’s Trust, when his nose brushed my cheek in a whisper of courage, our rhythm faltered. The same mustangs who had learned to seek my calm suddenly found reason to doubt again. It happened fast — faster than I could breathe or reason through — and by the time stillness returned, the air felt heavy with the sound of splintered trust.

No one was hurt — not in the way that leaves marks. But fear leaves its own kind of bruise, invisible yet deep.

I stood there long after the commotion faded, trying to find words for the hollow ache that follows a setback. There’s fear, of course — fear for their safety, fear of what could have been worse. Yet mostly, there’s heartbreak. Because trust, once earned, feels sacred. Losing even a piece of it feels like betraying a prayer you didn’t realize you’d said aloud.

However, the truth about mustang trust training — real, ethical gentling — is that it’s never a straight line. It’s a circle that widens and tightens with every touch, every breath, every moment of doubt. Horses don’t measure us by perfection; they measure us by what we do after things go wrong. So that’s what I tried to hold onto.

When quiet returned, I went back to the pasture. I took off Floki’s halter and let the soft autumn wind do the talking. I didn’t ask for anything, not even forgiveness. Instead, I just stood where he could see me and waited for the rhythm to begin again — one heartbeat, one breath, one small promise at a time.

Because gentling isn’t about control. It’s about listening, especially when the silence hurts. And sometimes, the truest kind of trust isn’t in the moments that go right — it’s in the choice to keep believing after they don’t.