I WAS AN ANXIOUS WORKAHOLIC WHO COULDN’T SLOW DOWN. THEN I BOUGHT AN EX-RACEHORSE — AND HE MADE ME A BETTER PERSON.

What he taught me — although I didn’t know it at the time — was mindfulness.

It was getting dark. The rain had that biting, sleety feel to it. Jim’s stable was ready for him — dry, warm, with soft bedding and a big bucket of feed. Next door his companion, a pony called Tadpole, was tucking into his own tea. Yet, out in the field, I couldn’t get anywhere near Jim to bring him in. His headcollar swung impotently in my hand as we did the frustrating dance that many horse owners are familiar with — I’d take step towards him, he’d back away or worse, turn his backside towards me, ready to protect himself if needs be. His whole body was tense, rigid as a plank, and occasionally he’d explode up the fence line away from me and I’d follow him, only for him to explode back to the gate. Wherever we were, he kept his eyes on me, suspicious, wary, worried. The field was becoming churned up from his hooves. He was starting to sweat, clearly distressed. I was crying, tears of frustration and helplessness.

At a loss for what to do, I gave up and went in the house, still crying. My husband was making dinner and, at the sight of me, worry shot across his face: “What’s happened? Are you injured?” My husband, who is not experienced or confident around horses is quite rightly wary of them, their size, their unpredictability. A year or so before, I’d been kicked by a horse (not mine) in the back and the face, getting off comparatively lightly with a cracked rib, a bruised jaw and bloody lip. So I could see his point.

Between the sobs, I managed to get out the words. “It’s Jim. He won’t come to me. I can’t catch him. I’ve tried and tried and he won’t come anywhere near me. I really don’t need this. I’ve been helping Mum and Dad move house all day, I’ve got that interview tomorrow that I haven’t even started preparing for yet and I’m exhausted and fed up and … ” And that was the problem.

I’d had Jim for about a year at the time. He was six years old, an ex-racehorse who’d been in training but wasn’t fast enough or tough enough to actually do the job. It’s estimated that around 5,000 racehorses leave the industry every year in the UK — either retired after their racing career is over or having never even hit the track. The lucky ones end up with new owners who, with varying degrees of success, retrain them as riding horses. Perhaps simply to hack across the moors, perhaps to show jump or do dressage. For the horses, it’s an enormous adjustment — like being a formula 1 driver your whole life and then suddenly someone says oh, no, you’re an accountant now.

Jim had ended up with me. We were slowly getting to know one another and building a bond. He’d always been good to catch, especially when he knew it was dinner time — he’d give me a big whinny, as if to say “Hey, food lady, where have you been?” and would let me put his headcollar on to lead him in.

But on this occasion, he’d taken one look at me — manic, brain whirring with all the things I still needed to do — and all his instincts warned him to stay away. My energy was unsettling, frightening to him. And the more upset and desperate I got — the further away from me he wanted to be.

So that evening, my husband put on the biggest pair of brave pants he could find and went out to try and catch Jim for me. Of course, Jim went straight to him, relieved that someone calmer (if slightly cautious) was going to bring him in for his tea. I could only stand back and watch, Jim still eyeing me suspiciously the whole time.

That experience taught me a very valuable lesson — no matter what sort of day I was having, I had to leave any stress I was carrying at the yard gate. I couldn’t bring it into Jim’s world.

In January this year, French researchers conducted a study with 34 mares. They found that even though the mares had had limited contact with humans, they still reacted within seconds to human emotional states — becoming stressed (higher heart rate, stiff alert posture) with angry humans and relaxed with joyful, smiling humans. The lead researcher concluded that horses are “like emotional sponges”.

I’ve always been a hectic person, prone to stress and anxiety. I have an infinite “to do list” that I can never escape. I struggle to unwind. I can’t say no so I always take on more than I should. When I’m at the end of my tether my coping mechanism is to do more not less. I hate being late but I always pack too much into my day. This leaves me in a heightened state — which I’ve come to realise isn’t very pleasant to be around, for horses or humans.

And the truth is I’ve always sort of known that, but I’m ashamed to say, I’ve not been terribly motivated to change. But now Jim, my 500kg emotional sponge, was that motivation. I needed to learn to slow down.

Horses are prey animals. And despite the fact that Jim now lives a pampered life where his every possible need is met — the companionship of another horse, shelter, food, a visit from the vet if he looks even slightly off colour, an extensive wardrobe of rugs suitable for any weather condition, regular massages (seriously) — millions of years of evolution can’t be undone in the comparatively short period that horses have been domesticated. Horses have survived because they’ve been able to very quickly go into high alert mode, react quickly to any sudden movements and get themselves out of harm’s way. I’ve seen Jim go from grazing quietly to galloping full speed up the field, his heart beating out of his chest — all because a leaf fell out of a tree in front of him. Now obviously I can’t control everything in his environment — there will always be falling leaves — but I can control myself.

So I made a pact with Jim. I would be as slow as possible around him, only ever making quiet, gentle movements, never rushing him (if I was late for something, well, I’d just be late). Whether I was putting on his rug, picking up his feet to check them for stones or loading him into a horse trailer, I would do it with an almost T’ai Chi-like energy.

I also read a piece of research suggesting that horses remember a person’s facial impression and that it colours their reaction to that person when they met them subsequently — someone who looked angry on a previous occasion, they would be wary of when they met them again. Someone who smiled, they would be pleased to see again. So I took to smiling whenever I approached Jim. It might sound silly, but it’s funny how just smiling (even if you don’t feel like it) softens the face, the eyes, and gives your own heart a little lift. I noticed that Jim’s face relaxed in response to my own — I could see it in his eyes.

I also made sure I only used a soft voice — and if he was anxious about something, I’d use a voice that was not dissimilar to someone guiding a meditation, coupled with a gentle scratch of his neck where I know it relaxes him.

And, over time, I noticed a difference in our relationship. A trust was building. A deeper connection was forming. Sometimes if I was doing chores in the field or the yard, Jim would choose to simply be with me, his nose under my arm, half closing his eyes and breathing deep, rhythmic breaths.

Of course, what Jim was teaching me (although I didn’t know it then) was mindfulness. How to be in the moment, how to have a quiet mind and a full, open heart. I realised this during lockdown, when I took up yin yoga and meditation as a way to look after my mental health. I found so many common themes between these practises and how I try to be when I’m around Jim.

I’m far from alone in these realisations. Anyone who has ever cried into a horse’s mane to soothe a broken heart knows the therapeutic power of these animals. If we just stop for long enough to let them work their magic on us.

Equine Assisted Therapy — where, guided by a therapist, spending time with a horse is part of the process — is now used for everything from PTSD to depression, for precisely the reasons I discovered that evening when Jim wouldn’t come to me. Horses reflect us back at ourselves — for better or for worse. Studies have shown that, out of all animals, horses are particularly suited to the role of therapeutic assistant: they’re much bigger than us and command our respect; in our psyche we associate them with freedom and spirit; they’re intelligent and can read our body language quickly — and they also react to it quickly too, giving us instant feedback on our behaviour and emotions.

My neighbour and I often laugh as we watch our horses in the field — oh, what a wonderful waste of time horses are, we say, we’ve got so much to do and we’re just standing here! But what I’ve come to realise is there is nothing wasteful about stopping, about standing still for a moment. Quite the opposite — these are precious moments.

Now all I have to do is find a way to transfer the sense of calm and stillness that I’ve managed to cultivate in my relationship with horses into other aspects of my daily life — into my work life, my home life, my relationships.

I owe that to my husband.