I first meet four year old Anneke when her worried father brings her for an Equine Assisted Psychotherapy session after her mother was brutally murdered by a neighbor six months before. “She hasn’t spoken since,” he says softly in his lilting French accent. He has brought his family to America on a work visa with the international company he works for and is far from family, friends and a support system. I regard the tiny girl before me, dressed improbably in white, her hair beautifully braided and tied with purple ribbons, miniature riding boots on her little feet. She does not make eye contact or respond to my greeting when I kneel down to her level.
“I’m so glad you are here, Anneke,” I say warmly. “Would you like to visit some horses with me?” She shakes her head vehemently.
“She is very afraid of horses,” her father volunteers.
I consider this information and decide we will visit a pert little pony named Petey, whose smaller size may be less intimidating for Anneke than the larger horses will be. She hangs back as we approach the paddock, clutching her father’s hand, her eyes wide with fear. I chat quietly as we walk, observing the landscape in a singsong voice: “There is the big orange tractor that delivers the hay. There is the barn where the show horses stay during the day. And here is the pen where Petey lives.”
Petey lifts his head as we near the gate, his shaggy mane and forelock partially obscuring his inquisitive brown eyes. He trots over, hoping for a treat, and Anneke gasps audibly and shrinks back, trying to climb up her father’s long legs. He picks her up and she buries her face in his neck.
“Let’s just stay out here and see what Petey does,” I suggest. I breathe slowly in and out, lending Anneke and her father the calm of my regulated nervous system, trying to help them ground using their five senses: “Notice the breeze on your skin and in your hair and feel the warmth of the sunshine. Can you hear the birds singing their song to us? You can smell the earth, the hay, and definitely the poop!” I add with a smile.. Anneke peeks up from her father’s neck. “You and your dad can stay out here and I will go into the pen to tell you about Petey,” I say, unlatching the gate. I tell her that Petey is a Welsh pony and has lots of opinions about who he lives with. He has discovered how to let himself out of his pen and goes to visit the other horses and has to be coaxed back to his paddock with treats. I show her where Petey likes to be scratched under his belly and how he makes funny faces and puckers his lips when you scratch him there. She is staring openly now, her mouth making a little “O.” Her father is laughing.
I ask Anneke if she would like to take a step closer and help me feed Petey a treat over the fence but she shakes her head no, and hides her face again.
“It’s ok,” I tell her. “I will give him one for you, and when you are ready to do this you can let me know!”
We end the session by visiting the barn kitties who rub against our legs purring and meowing. She stands very still and makes no move to pet them, but tolerates their touch.
As I watch Anneke and her father walk away, I am moved to tears by the deep grief they each carry over this terrible, tragic loss. I am determined to help Anneke regain her voice so she can speak her truth into the world.
Over the next several months, Anneke slowly begins to come out of her shell. She still does not speak, but she will nod or shake her head when I ask her simple questions and will point at things she is interested in. She agrees to enter the paddock while her father holds her in his arms one day and smiles when Petey’s nose brushes her leg. Eventually she reaches out from the safety of her perch to touch his shaggy mane. It is a very special day when she walks into the paddock on her own and helps me brush Petey’s coat and comb his mane and tail. I show her how to ask Petey to walk with us in the paddock at liberty, and then how to put on his halter so we can take him for a walk outside the pen too. “Let me know when you would like to sit on Petey’s back,” I remind her each week, but she always shakes her head, no.
Then, four months into our work together, she nods when I mention riding Petey. I try not to let my excitement show so as to not overwhelm her. I know that the motion of a horse can be regulating for her nervous system and the experience of being carried and rocked by Petey could be very beneficial for Anneke. Together, we brush Petey and I hold his small hooves so she can check for rocks and other debris. I show her how to put the saddle pad on with his consent, waiting for him to exhale and relax before tightening the girth. Her father lifts her onto Petey’s back and walks beside her on one side and I walk on her other side while my Equine Professional leads Petey around in the paddock. I encourage her to breathe deeply and to notice how Petey’s body is moving hers. She points at the gate. “Do you want to go out?” I ask her. She nods, yes.
We walk out of the paddock and out onto the property. I am narrating the landscape as we pass the barn, farm equipment, various pastures filled with horses, and one with cows. We are nearing the brood mares’ pasture. I debate how to narrate this, and finally simply say, “here are the mama’s.” Anneke stares. She breathes in sharply. Then, with tears sliding down her cheeks, she says, “Mama.” Her father gasps. “Mama,” she says again, reaching for her father. He pulls her off of Petey’s back and holds her tightly as they sob together. He tells me later that this is the first time she has cried or spoken since her mother’s murder.
Anneke continues to attend sessions with her father for several more months. Although she continues to rely mostly on non-verbals to communicate with me, her father tells me that she has started speaking more at home and a little bit at school. At her last session before her father moves the family back to France, Anneke hugs Petey and gives him treats, giggling when his whiskers tickle her hand. I ask her father to take a picture of her with Petey so she has a reminder of their relationship and time spent together. I help her cut off a bit of his tail. We braid it and tie it with the purple ribbon I brought, remembering the first time she came with purple ribbons in her hair. She shyly tells me goodbye and gives me a hug too. I remind her that she is very brave as I hold her little body in my arms. “It is brave to feel sad and cry and to face your fears and pain,” I remind her. She nods and waves goodbye over her shoulder as she and her father leave the barn for the last time. I stand with Petey, stroking him and thanking him for helping bring a little girl back from unspeakable tragedy. He mugs for one last carrot before rejoining his herd at the round bale.
Anneke is taking much more than a picture and lock of hair from her time with Petey. She is taking new neural pathways in her brain and body for the safe, healing connection she experienced with her therapy team, both human and equine. She will have much more to work through in the future, but she will have access to the words that will help her do so going forward.
Author’s note:
Speech is a complex motor task requiring numerous muscles to work together and coordinate with the breath to produce different sounds. A horse’s variable, rhythmic, repetitive movement provides proprioceptive, vestibular, tactile, auditory, olfactory and visual sensory input while also providing the warmth of relational connection as they carry their rider. In Anneke’s case, trauma shut down her ability to speak, rather than congenital or physiological causes. Her relationship with Petey, along with the specific sensory input his movement provided her body and brain, were all instrumental in allowing her to develop the mental, emotional and physical capacity to speak again.
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