Even though I’ve done hundreds of animal communication sessions, and pet parents continue to validate the messages with appreciation and relief, it wasn’t always this way.

In our first several months together, I struggled deeply with my horse Lucky Louie’s behavior. He would bolt while I was riding, leap into the air without warning, and pull away from me on the way to the ring, sometimes getting loose and tearing around until we could catch him. I’ll never forget the moment he slipped on the asphalt, fell hard, and cut up his shoulder and hocks. He panicked if he was brought inside first, hated being alone, and his 1,400-pound body became dangerous when flooded with fear. When I moved him to a new barn, the other horse on the trailer was unloaded first. In the instant he thought he was alone, he flew backward off the trailer, breaking the bar that was holding him in place. I could feel his anxiety pounding in my own chest. And I kept wondering: “What if I can't fix this? What if he hurts himself… or me?”

One day, about six months into our relationship, I was riding Lucky Louie. He was big, opinionated, and not exactly shy about his feelings. Our rides were often… let’s call them “dynamic.” On this particular day, we were doing our best impression of dressage when, out of nowhere, I heard a voice in my head say — clear as day — “Shut up.”

It wasn’t my inner critic. It was him.

And weirdly, I knew exactly what he meant: I was being too loud with my riding aids. My seat, legs, and hands were all talking at once. And to him, it felt like I was yelling directions in five languages with the volume cranked to 10. He wanted clarity. Simplicity. A little peace and quiet, please. So I adjusted. And instantly, the energy between us changed.

That was my first conscious experience with telepathic animal communication. I didn’t know how to repeat it, or even what to call it, but I knew it was real.

A few weeks later, I watched an equine massage therapist work on him. She hovered her hands above his body like she was trying to find a radio signal, pausing at certain spots. And Lucky melted. Ears flopped, eyes soft, jaw relaxed. He looked like he was on a beach somewhere with a drink. I asked her what she was doing. She said, “I’m doing energy work. He’s telling me what he needs.”

At that moment, I realized I had some catching up to do.

So I made Lucky a promise: “If you tell me what you need — physically, emotionally, energetically, I’ll listen. Even if I don’t totally understand.” And he did. He began sending me intuitive knowings, whispers I could feel before there were any visible symptoms. I’d call the vet, they’d find exactly what I described. Eventually, even the vet started trusting my instincts. But the biggest shift? Lucky started trusting me. And I finally felt like I was earning that trust.

Within a year of that promise, Lucky Louie was a different horse. No more bolting, no more spinning, no more airborne acrobatics. The horse who once panicked at the idea of being alone in the barn became the calm presence others now looked to for reassurance. I could put a complete beginner on him and trust him completely, and he delivered every time.

He didn’t just stop the dangerous behaviors… he started leading. horses gravitated toward him. Humans did too. He had become grounded, steady, and safe. Not because he’d been “fixed,” but because he’d been heard.

If I could freeze one moment in this whole journey, it would be the first time someone said, “You’re so lucky to have a horse like him,” and I smiled and said, “Yeah, I am.” (And paused internally to remember the asphalt incident, the flying shipping boots, and the time he tried to reverse out of a trailer.)

What I didn’t say out loud was: “I earned this version of him.” Through listening, through trial and error, through moments of absolute cluelessness where I just kept trying to do right by him… something shifted. In both of us.

Because the truth is, the transformation didn’t just happen in him; it happened in me. I became someone who listens more deeply, who trusts what can’t be seen, and who now helps others learn to do the same.

It still surprises me sometimes. But Lucky? I think he always knew.