When the Bridle Comes Off, the Truth Comes Out | A Letter to Lady (Unbridled)

NOËLLE FLOYD (0:05)

Okay, so I'm out here in the field with Lady, and I thought it would be appropriate to read you and her a letter that I wrote to her.

About what she means to me.

And I'm out here in the field, and it just felt like I needed some hand cheese here too.

I have one for him, but you guys are gonna hear my letter to Lady first.

And I highly recommend writing to your horses, because it takes contemplation and reflection in a way that I think is really important. You know, I talk a lot about slowing down and finding presence, and we have to find little ways to do that. We can't assume that it will come naturally, especially in this day and age, in the way that the world is curated for us, the way the world is designed. It's really designed to sort of move on, move on, move on to the next, move on to the next, move on to the next. And so I found writing. When I first got Lady, I wrote her a letter, and I wrote her a series of promises that I often go back to. And I think it's important, it's like reading your journal, or reading your diary. I think it's really important for a lot of us. I know for myself, like my relationships with my horses are some of the most important relationships in my life. You know, whatever that says about me, I mean, I'm sure it says a lot of things. Some of them are good, some of them are bad, but my horses are some of the most important relationships to me. And so, I like approach it very much from that perspective. And so, writing to them feels right. So, without further ado, here we go.

Dear Lady, When I began making Unbridled, I was afraid of what the horse world would conclude about me, that I was lacking, that I was not talented enough, skilled enough, or capable enough, that I was not worthy of my horses. I had spent 14 years interviewing extraordinary horse people and sharing the knowledge of people who were perceived to have a lot of the answers. Now, I am placing myself in front of the camera and admitting that I do not know.

When we started this journey, I thought I was setting out to become a better horsewoman. I believed I needed better skills, more experience and stronger techniques. I imagined that if I could acquire enough knowledge, I would finally become deserving of you.

But the journey took us somewhere else. You began to show me that relationship does not begin with the bridle. It does not begin with the correct technique. It begins with the self we bring into the space. For 14 years, I told the horse world stories. Then you came into my life. You were unlike any horse I had ever met. You were more wild and tame, more questioning than compliant, sometimes aggressive, sometimes indifferent, and also profoundly tender. You were full of life and unwilling to perform a version of yourself that made other people more comfortable. I fell in love with you before I ever met you. I dreamed of you first, although that is a story for another time.

Loving you made it impossible for me to remain safely in the interviewer's chair. You required me to begin asking the deepest and most uncomfortable questions I have ever asked about horses and about myself.

Is what we do with horses truly the greatest possible expression of our ancient relationship with you? Or is there more? Is there something we have forgotten? Something we have left behind? I want to know whether I can build a partnership with you without requiring you to become less yourself. Can I meet you without making you smaller? Can I become more capable without becoming more controlling? Can we find another frontier of partnership together? Those questions are what have become unbridled. You do not care who I am supposed to be. You do not care what I have accomplished, who I know, or what name is attached to the company I've built. You respond to what is happening inside me right now. You read the part of me I cannot mask. You have shown me that relationship cannot be built through technique alone. I can perform the correct action and still communicate something entirely different through my body. I can speak softly while carrying pressure. I can intend connection while demanding an outcome. I can say that I am listening while secretly waiting for you to agree with me. You feel the discrepancy and you answer it honestly. Your questions have never really been, can you make me do this? Can you prove that you are capable? Can you become impressive enough to deserve me? Instead, your questions are much more confronting. How can you meet me if you do not meet yourself? How can you love me if you do not love yourself? How can you understand me if you do not understand yourself? You have taught me that I do not have to be perfectly regulated, certain or composed to be worthy of this relationship. I can be afraid, I can be frustrated, I can be unsure. But I must become honest about what is present. You ask for congruency, not perfection. You ask me to clear what needs to be cleared, express what needs to be expressed, and return to the relationship without pretending. You have become my greatest measure of whether what I say, what I intend, and what my body communicates are beginning to agree.