Conscious Leadership]🐴What Horses Taught Me About Leadership

I’ve fallen off a horse twice.

The second time, out in the English countryside on a trail ride, I was caught between my fear and the horse’s instinct to follow its herd. Five riders galloped ahead across the open fields. I panicked—pulled back on the reins, desperate to slow down. The horse, confused by my mixed signals and fighting against what it had been trained to do, threw me.

Lying in the grass, body aching, I realized: I had been asking the horse to fight its own nature while refusing to be clear about mine.

“These fifteen-hundred-pound horses, eight times heavier than most people and nearly twenty times stronger, do teach us more than they know. In the equilibrium of rider and horse, the animal is more powerful. To find harmony with this strong and nimble beast, we must first surrender to them and gain their trust. Indeed, riders depend on a sixth sense to relay that they respect and dignify their mounts, and ensure that both of them share the same objective as one. Horses, in turn, teach riders patience and empathy.” - from the book 'Horses from Saudi Arabia,' Assouline

I started riding seriously five years ago, though it began casually—a half-hearted let’s try it experiment during the pandemic. No more flights, no pilgrimages, no packed calendars. For the first time in years, I was stationed in one place, staying still.

But the idea had been planted fifteen years earlier, in a New York City bookstore. I remember standing under fluorescent lights at Barnes & Noble, staring at a memoir about a woman who crossed Argentina on horseback. Something in that image—the raw honesty of it, the wildness—lodged itself in me. A “someday” dream.

Maybe it wasn’t just mine. My maternal grandfather rode. And the founding ancestor of my father’s clan, back in the 9th century, was a general during the founding of the Goryeo dynasty, which gave Korea its name. He was a famous archer, a poet, a rider whose life often depended on the horse beneath him. Sometimes I imagine his battles, the chaos, the trust. And I am sure many of the following ancestors also rode horses in battlefields. Riding connected me to him, to all of them—but also carved out my own expression of freedom.

When I first showed up to ride, I learned quickly that horses let you sit on their backs—they don’t owe you obedience. My early teachers were old school horses: patient, clever, a little jaded. They’d veer off-course for a mouthful of grass, stop mid-trail just to test me.

I had no control. I didn’t want to hurt them, didn’t want to dominate them. I wanted communion—being to being, consciousness to consciousness. Just like how I treat my 'brother'—our family dog.

But these horses had seen everything. They were used to riders who didn’t mean what they said. If I wasn’t grounded and clear, they’d call my bluff.

The first fall came in Hyde Park, when a horse spooked at a sports car’s engine and bolted. The second, in the countryside, came when I tried to control the horse while also asking it to disobey its herd instinct. I was terrified of going too fast, and the horse could feel every tremor of that fear.

After that, fear took the reins. My body stiffened. Horses always notice.

For a year, I wrestled with the ethics of it all. Was I complicit in their captivity? Were these lessons worth the price of their freedom? I accused instructors of being too harsh, too desensitized. I refused to use the whip. I wanted to ride kindly—but I was stuck, paralyzed by philosophy while making no progress.

All I wanted was to gallop across the land, wild and free. But the path to freedom demanded more than just showing up. It required discipline, patience, and a kind of love that looked a lot like clarity.

So I started over. I studied how horses think, how they read human energy through breath and posture. I found a stable that valued both skill and the horses’ wellbeing. I learned to respect their boundaries—and my own.

That’s when it clicked: the horses weren’t asking for softness. They were asking for truth.

Leadership isn’t dominance. Presence doesn’t need to be aggressive. When I showed up grounded—clear in my direction—they trusted me. We could finally move as one.

Sometimes, while riding, I’d see flashes of another time in my imagination—crusaders galloping across the moors, my ancestor racing toward battle. Horse and human, bound by something wordless and sacred.

That’s what horses taught me about leadership.

To lead well, you must show up clear and calm. Horses look for a leader. If you’re hesitant, they hesitate. If you’re lost, they lose trust.

I used to fear being too much—too firm, too demanding—so I’d retreat into silence, mistaking it for gentleness. Riding taught me a different kind of strength: the strength of grounded clarity.

To lead with presence, not pressure. To find power in calm. Trust in direction.

The horses needed me to know what I wanted so they could trust me to get us there. That’s what they were asking all along: not perfection, not control—just truth.

Not loud. Not harsh. But steady. And real.

I still wrestle with the bigger questions—horses confined in stables, race or polo horses being treated harshly or sometimes killed after injuries, and the ethics of captivity. Nothing brings me more joy than watching a free-spirited animal running wild in its natural rhythm, in its own happiness. I’ll probably continue to debate these questions as I learn more about horses.

Still, I dream of a day when I can offer sound bath sessions to horses in stables—bringing them a moment of calm, resonance, and peace.

What I know is this, though: horses changed how I lead and how I live.

Now I’m curious about you. What has taught you about leadership in unexpected ways? Have you ever worked with animals or felt nature mirror something back to you about yourself? What have you learned lately that surprised you?

Share your story—I’d love to hear what unexpected teachers have shaped how you lead.