Let me set the scene: I’m standing in the middle of a pasture at sunset, wearing borrowed cowboy boots, with a horse staring judgmentally at me from under a swish of a perfectly conditioned mane. My phone, usually my safety net in moments where I feel out of my depth, is dead. All I have is a notebook full of cryptic shorthand, a rapidly failing flashlight, and the lingering realization that I don’t belong here. But hey, all in the name of a good story, right?

Let’s rewind to how I ended up here, equal parts cowgirl novice and determined writer chasing the weirdest story of my life.

“Wait, You Want Me to Do What?”

It all started as a playful pitch. I was brainstorming ideas with a fellow writer friend over tacos when she cheekily suggested, "Why don’t you infiltrate a couples’ therapy retreat … for horses?" Naturally, my margarita-marinated brain responded with, “Absolutely. That sounds hilarious.”

Turns out, it wasn’t a joke. A local therapist in Austin had started running equine therapy workshops as a way to help couples work through relationship issues. She claimed that horses—being intuitive, emotional creatures—could act as mirrors to expose hidden dynamics between partners. It was equal parts fascinating and bizarre. The workshop was notoriously private, but I couldn’t resist the challenge.

A few emails and an eye-popping participant’s fee later (covered by the publication, thankfully), I was posing as one half of an engaged couple. No, I didn’t bring an actual fiancé. I brought Sam, my perpetually single roommate who agreed to play along for free breakfast tacos. (Pro-tip: never underestimate the power of free tacos in Austin.)

Meet Your Therapists: Thunder and Cinnamon

The retreat was held on a sprawling ranch just outside the city, complete with a Pinterest-perfect barn and copious amounts of reclaimed wood décor. As we kicked off the weekend, the therapist introduced us to our “co-therapists,” an intimidatingly muscular horse named Thunder and a smaller, sassier mare named Cinnamon. Thunder exuded the kind of too-cool confidence I imagine George Clooney had in the early 2000s, while Cinnamon looked like the kind of diva who’d throw a drink in your face for mispronouncing “grande” at Starbucks.

The idea was simple: each couple would, through various horse-led activities, gain insight about their partnership. Thunder might reveal someone’s subconscious communication habits. Cinnamon would expose underlying anxieties. Horses, we were told, could sense emotions humans often hide or ignore, and they weren’t afraid to call you out on it.

The concept sounded lofty. I nodded pleasantly but internally wondered if I’d wandered into some niche Austin absurdity reserved for transplants who call queso “cheese dip.”

The Silent Treatment (But By a Horse)

Our first exercise was meant to reveal trust levels. Each “couple” stood on opposite sides of a corral, holding a long rope connected by a bridle. The goal was to get the horse—to whom we were both tethered—to walk to the other side of the corral and back without a word. Silence was key, because as the therapist explained, “True intimacy is more about nonverbal connection.”

Sam was predictably terrible at it. Thunder took one look at him, snorted like he’d just been asked to watch a rom-com marathon, and then refused to move. I couldn’t figure out who was more annoyed—Thunder or Sam, who hadn’t signed up to be publicly humiliated by livestock.

As for me, the experience wasn’t much better. Despite my best attempt to emit calm confidence, Thunder froze mid-corridor and began grazing, completely disregarding my silent pleas for cooperation. Meanwhile, a woman in our group was sobbing as Cinnamon demonstratively stomped her hooves, presumably showcasing some relationship metaphor so profound it required Kleenex.

When Metaphors Hit Too Close to Home

By Day Two, I accidentally started taking the workshop seriously. Not by choice, mind you. It’s just that horses are rude little truth tellers. Every fear, every doubt, every flicker of stress feels magnified when you’re staring down an animal capable of launching you into a fence with a casual shrug.

During one exercise, we had to guide a horse—free of ropes—through a small obstacle course. The trick was to appear “worthy of trust,” without being controlling. Easier said than done. After Cinnamon spent five minutes pointedly ignoring me, the therapist cheerfully asked, “That frustration you’re feeling—do you recognize it in other areas of life?”

I froze. I was gearing up for a defensive “Not really,” when Sam betrayed me. “She’s totally like this when things don’t go her way,” he stage-whispered. “Especially with deadlines.”

The horse may have been the therapist, but Sam was the accomplice. As it turns out, failure stings no matter where it happens—even if it’s in front of a recreational barn audience.

Love, Horses, and a Good Laugh

By the time the final day rolled around, my reporter mindset had temporarily stepped aside. Being vulnerable within a faux-relationship dynamic while a horse psychoanalyzes you is exhausting. But weirdly enough, it also works. By the end, Sam and I were bantering like any real couple, frustrated at how Cinnamon had blown our cover, but also thankful for the deep realization that we’re far better as platonic roommates than hypothetical fiancés.

Before we packed up, I asked the therapist what compelled her to include horses in her work. She explained that horses, unlike humans, don’t get distracted by facades. They don’t care how you present to the world. They feel how you actually are. “When couples can drop the pretense and meet horses where they are, they’re not just learning about their partners; they’re learning about themselves.”

While I can’t claim that Thunder and Cinnamon taught me the secrets of lifelong love, they did teach me a few lessons, including:

  • It’s okay to laugh when things get weird. Whether it’s your roommate fake-proposing for creative cover or a horse giving you the equivalent of a side-eye, humor is your ally.
  • Vulnerability is hard but worth it. Horses don’t lie, and neither should you. Real connection isn’t about saying the perfect thing—it’s about showing up, flaws and all.
  • Never underestimate the reflective power of tacos. Seriously. Best debrief food ever.

Wrapping Up the Ride

Would I recommend couples therapy with horses to everyone? Not necessarily. If you’re terrified of large animals or highly suspicious of metaphor, this might not be your gallop of choice. But if you’re game to learn about yourself—whether through a lofty equine retreat or the messy adventure of a new relationship—I say saddle up.

Turns out, the weirdest thing I’ve done for a story wasn’t just weird. It also taught me that connection—whether with horses, friends, or future partners—isn’t really about being perfect. It’s about showing up and letting yourself be seen, hoof prints and all.