The video at the bottom of this post captures Whisper’s very first moment of standing.
She had already tried a few times—including multiple attempts that ended with her crumpling into the wall, and one where she nearly flipped forward over her right shoulder.
Still soaking wet and with no past success to build on, she tried again.
I stepped into the stall for a better angle, and then this happened.
In last week’s email, I talked about moments when your body hesitates.
This was the opposite.
As Whisper stood and came staggering toward me, everything in me wanted to catch her. To reach out. To help.
My instinct said, *step in.*
But my mind said, *stand still.*
Even watching the video now, I see the choice in my body. I had been about to text a photo to a friend—and you’ll notice, I don’t even move. What *should* have been a simple, fluid gesture—putting the phone down—was impacted by the effort it took to hold still.
Because stillness isn’t passive.
Stillness is a practiced choice.
Watching the video, I see three lessons emerge:
1. **Wobbles are part of learning.** Success doesn’t require proof in advance.
2. **The instinct to help isn’t always helpful.** Gabby, Whispers mom, stood back watching. When she *did* step in, to encourage her, it was with nips and pawing—rough, but effective encouragement. ‘Help’ isn’t always soft.
3. **Stillness is a skill.** Not disconnection. Not distraction. Stillness. Attentive, chosen, embodied focus—with breath and presence.
Stillness is a lot like Whisper’s first attempts to stand.
You learn by doing. And the first tries are rarely graceful.
You fall, flail, regroup.
And with enough repetition, you develop something more than strength—you gain the ability to *stay*.
A few days later, I was riding Ember alone in my indoor arena. I asked her to stop and stand.
The moment turned into minutes.
The smell of horses and spring rain, the filtered light on her coat—I wanted to soak it all in. Ember stood quietly, seeming to enjoy the moment too.
She’s three now.
As a yearling, she was incapable of stillness.
But she’s learned.
When you’ve learned to be still, you can teach it.
Not just to your horse, but to yourself.
And to others.
Ride with Faith,
Stacy Westfall
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