Give the Horse the Reins

Sometimes You Have to Give the Horse the Reins

Sometimes Trust Requires Us to Release Control

There are some moments as a parent that become permanently etched into your memory.

You don't necessarily realize their significance while they're happening. You're simply standing there, watching your child do something she's done a hundred times before.

And then something changes.

For me, one of those moments happened at a barn, watching my daughter Jessica ride her horse, Penny.

Some Relationships Begin With Trust

From the moment Jess and Penny met, there was a connection between them that was difficult to explain.

Penny seemed to know she had found someone she could trust.

And Jess trusted her right back.

If you've spent any time around horses, you know how significant that is. A horse is powerful enough to hurt you without even intending to. Riding requires communication between two beings who don't speak the same language.

You communicate through pressure and release. Movement. Posture. Energy. Repetition.

And eventually, trust.

Jess and Penny developed that trust so deeply that you could actually see it when they rode together.

I noticed it most when Jess started jumping.

If Jess didn't approach a jump perfectly or got slightly ahead or behind, Penny seemed to know.

I would watch that horse physically collect herself—as if she were shortening and gathering her entire body beneath Jess—giving her just enough time to catch up.

Penny could have simply continued forward.

Instead, she adjusted.

She protected her rider.

That's trust.

Not the sentimental kind we talk about when everything is going well.

The kind that says:

I've got you when you don't get it exactly right.

And maybe that's one of the most beautiful definitions of trust I've ever witnessed.

Then Came the Day We Raised the Bar

One day at the barn, Jess and Penny were having an incredible ride.

Everything was clicking.

Jess was doing her job.

Penny was doing hers.

They were completely in sync.

Jess had been jumping somewhere around three to three-and-a-half feet, and that day she looked at me and asked me to raise the poles.

So I did.

My husband happened to be there watching, which made what happened next even more memorable.

We raised the jump to four feet.

Jess brought Penny around.

They approached.

And Penny sailed over it.

Not barely.

Not awkwardly.

She cleared it.

From where I stood, I could see something Jess couldn't see from the saddle:

Penny had plenty left.

So I raised the pole again.

Jess looked at me.

"Really, Mom?"

I could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

"Yes. You can do it."

Then I told her what I had seen.

She couldn't see Penny jump from my vantage point. She couldn't know how much clearance Penny had over that last rail.

But I could.

That meant Jess had another decision to make.

She wasn't only being asked to trust herself.

She wasn't only being asked to trust Penny.

She had to decide whether she trusted my perspective.

She turned Penny toward the jump.

And off they went.

At Some Point, You Have to Release the Reins

There's something fascinating about jumping a horse that makes this story even more powerful.

As the horse commits to the jump, the rider has to release.

You can't pull back and simultaneously ask the horse to fly.

You have to move with the horse.

You have to give.

You have to trust.

You have to allow this incredibly powerful animal underneath you to do what it knows how to do.

And that's exactly what Jess did.

She trusted Penny.

Penny trusted Jess.

Jess trusted what I had seen.

And together, they flew.

Afterward, we walked over to measure the jump.

It wasn't four feet.

It wasn't even four-and-a-half.

It was five feet.

We just stared at each other.

I'm fairly certain my husband's heart was somewhere on the barn floor.

But Jess and Penny?

They had done it.

And what struck me wasn't simply that Penny could jump five feet.

It was how easily she had done it when Jess gave her permission to do what she was capable of doing.

I've never forgotten that.

Because I think we spend an awful lot of our lives pulling on the reins.

What Are You Holding Back Because You Can't See What Someone Else Can?

There are seasons in business and life when we're Jess sitting on Penny.

We know we've done three feet.

Maybe we've even done four.

We know what feels comfortable.

We know what we've accomplished before.

Then someone standing outside our situation says:

Raise the bar.

And our immediate response is:

Really?

A good mentor often sees something you cannot.

Not because they're smarter than you.

Not because they should make your decisions for you.

And certainly not because you should blindly follow anyone who calls themselves a coach, mentor, consultant, or expert.

But perspective matters.

Jess couldn't see Penny clear that rail.

I could.

That's the value of trusted perspective.

Sometimes the person standing outside the arena can see how much room you actually have between where you are and what you're capable of.

They can see the strength you've stopped noticing.

They can see patterns you can't see from inside the situation.

They can see that you're ready for another six inches—or another foot—even when you're wondering whether you should attempt the jump at all.

But their belief cannot replace yours.

Eventually, you still have to turn toward the jump.

Trust Isn't the Absence of Fear

Jess was nervous.

She did it anyway.

That's an important distinction.

Trust doesn't always feel like confidence.

Sometimes trust sounds like:

I'm not completely sure about this, but I'm willing to move forward.

Sometimes courage isn't charging ahead fearlessly.

Sometimes it's simply loosening your grip.

And this is where the lesson reaches beyond mentors, business, and even our ability to trust ourselves.

Because there are times when I think God asks us to do exactly that.

Loosen our grip.

Stop trying to control every step.

Stop demanding to know exactly how high the obstacle is before we approach it.

Stop assuming that because we can't see the way over something, there isn't one.

Faith doesn't mean we stop using wisdom. It doesn't mean we ignore preparation, counsel, or good judgment.

It means we recognize that ultimately, we were never controlling everything in the first place.

There comes a moment when preparation has done its work.

Wisdom has spoken.

The opportunity is in front of us.

And we have to give the reins.

The Five-Foot Jump Wasn't Really the Biggest Accomplishment

Looking back, the thing I treasure most about that day isn't that Jess jumped five feet.

It's what experiences like that helped build inside her.

Trust in herself.

The willingness to receive guidance.

The ability to recognize when someone else's perspective might help her see something she couldn't.

And, as I've watched her grow, a deeper understanding that ultimately God is in control.

Those are muscles.

And just like riding, we develop them through practice.

Trust grows because we've experienced what happens when we trust.

Confidence grows because we've survived the jumps that once intimidated us.

Faith deepens because we begin recognizing all the places where God was already working while we were still gripping the reins.

And sometimes we discover something else.

The obstacle we were so afraid of wasn't nearly as big as the capacity God had already built within us.

Maybe It's Time to Raise the Bar

So here's the question I've been sitting with:

Where are you still pulling back on the reins?

Maybe you've been circling the same opportunity because you're waiting until you feel completely confident.

Maybe someone you trust keeps telling you they see more capacity in you than you see in yourself.

Maybe you've prepared, prayed, learned, practiced, and planned—and now you're trying to control the outcome too.

Or maybe God has been quietly asking you to trust Him with something you cannot fully see yet.

You don't need blind faith in yourself.

You don't need blind faith in another person.

You need discernment about who has earned your trust and courage to listen when their perspective reveals something you cannot see from where you're sitting.

Then comes the hard part.

Turn toward the jump.

Loosen your grip.

And when it's time...

give the horse the reins.

You may discover you've been capable of clearing five feet all along.