Several years ago, I met two mustangs—Pete and Max—who had known each other since their early days in a Bureau of Land Management (BLM) facility. From there, they were moved to sanctuary pastures and eventually went through the same training program. Through each transition, they stuck together. They had left behind a larger herd, but they found strength in one another as they faced the unfamiliar and, at times, the tricky world of human interaction. They were their little herd—perhaps even family. At the very least, they were bonded companions.
Then, as it often happens in the world of horse adoption, the time came for them to part. Pete was chosen for a new home and was scheduled to be transported to another state. Max would remain behind. I was there, along with a few others, to help with the logistics—ensuring Pete’s safe departure and supporting Max through what we anticipated would be a difficult separation.
Moments like these require a calm, grounded approach and a generous amount of time and space—both for the humans and the horses. Thanks to the preparation and care taken, Pete loaded easily into the trailer, and soon, the truck began its journey away from the ranch.
Throughout the process, I stayed close to Max. He was allowed to see everything, to have those final moments of physical closeness with Pete. After the trailer disappeared down the road, I unclipped Max’s halter, giving him the freedom to respond however he needed. If he needed to run, I did not want to be the one holding him back. Still, I stayed nearby, ready to step in if his distress became unsafe.
But what happened next surprised me.
Max did not run. He stood utterly still, silent and composed, staring off into the distance. Then, I felt something I had not anticipated—a powerful, magnetic pull from his body to mine. Without thinking, I stepped closer and found myself pressed gently against his side. We stood there together in perfect stillness—no thoughts, no words, no mental narration—just a deep, quiet presence.
I do not know how long we stayed like that. Perhaps only a minute. But in that moment, there was nothing else—only the shared energy, the undeniable connection. It was as if we were suspended in time, held together by something far more ancient and intuitive than language.
Then, Max gave a full-body shake, broke the stillness, and quietly wandered off to graze. No anxious whinnies, no frantic galloping—just a calm return to the present. Not long after, he was integrated into a new group of geldings. Soon, he was immersed in building new bonds, finding his place in a new herd.
Over the years, I have witnessed many horses experience loss—through the death of a companion or separation via adoption. But the moment with Max continues to stand out. It taught me something profound: to move through grief, eventually, we must find a connection again.
Loss, in its many forms, is a shared experience across species. Horses experience it when they are separated from their herd mates, when they are taken from the wild for domestication, or when they are subjected to training that disconnects them from their instincts. It echoes what we know all too well as humans. We grieve not just the loss of people but also the loss of beliefs, roles, places, emotional states, and values. These experiences can leave us feeling isolated and cut off from a sense of meaning and safety.
Horses show us another way. Like Max, some individuals can reconnect with another being—human or animal—and in doing so, they navigate the emotional turbulence with surprising grace. Others, especially those with deep wounds or traumatic histories, may struggle more intensely. Still, when given the opportunity to reconnect, most horses quickly regain their sense of belonging.
They feel pain. They feel the absence. But unlike us, they do not create stories around it. They do not spiral into self-narratives or future fears. They feel what is present without judgment, and when connection returns, healing follows.
Do they remember their lost companions? I believe they do. However, I also think that once they realize they are not alone, their grief becomes something they can carry with strength and peace.
We cannot avoid loss. But what we can do is honor it—and remember that the depth of our pain often mirrors the depth of our connection. To begin building life around the loss, at some point, we need to connect again: to ourselves, to others, to the world around us.
In a culture that often resists uncomfortable emotions, finding a safe place to feel our grief can be challenging. But do not give up. Grief education and emotional literacy are growing. Increasing numbers of people are discovering the power of compassionate, non-judgmental presence.
And then, of course, there are horses.
These beautiful, sensitive beings will stand beside us in our grief. They will hold space for sorrow, allow the tears to flow, and offer their presence—quiet, accepting, and true. They do not need words to help us heal. They simply know the power of connection.
If you find yourself navigating grief and longing to reconnect, stay tuned for ‘Horses for Growing Resilience In response to Emotional Fracture’—a one-day workshop hosted by the Center for Equus Coaching at Nacimiento Ranch in Paso Robles, CA. Fall 2025 dates will be announced soon.
Come and experience what Max taught me: that even in the depths of loss, connection is never out of reach.