The Dangers of Normalizing: Taught By The Mustang

Sage, my mustang from Antelope Valley, NV

The first time I met a mustang was at a clinic several years ago, and I was mesmerized. The mustang was a sleek and powerful dark bay mare who spoke volumes with her sharp eyes and full presence. The session with her owner was so intriguing. She offered suggestions, asserted opinions, and expressed her needs with an alert clarity. It was impossible to not understand the mare's intentions and wishes. She invited, corrected, and redirected her owner—sometimes with a pushy body block and other times with a subtle nose touch or a gentle step.

The nuances in each moment captivated me. She demanded full attention and would accept nothing less. As someone who already gravitated toward bold mares, I was hooked. Someday I would have a mustang.

Fast forward a few years (and a few emotional plot twists later), I had recently lost Indy—my heart horse and the rock of my little herd. That’s when I stumbled across a Facebook post of a little mustang mare. (The timing was awful, but when is it ever ideal to meet a new chapter of your life?) She was dark bay, really pretty—but in a simple way. And I couldn’t stop thinking about her the moment she caught my eye. I asked for a couple of videos, saw a flash of her intelligence. Then I just knew I had to have her.

Enter Sage, the mustang.

I quickly learned that although Sage had already adapted to basic domestic life, she still required me to earn my trust from scratch. As any mustang adopter or trainer knows, interacting with a mustang is nothing like working with a 'green' domestic horse.

While many well-trained mustangs have proven to be some of the best amateur horses out there...they certainly don't start that way. They are much more alert to their surroundings and have a strong instinct to survive. It takes a special understanding to convert those abilities into a partnership. (Hats off to the many mustang trainers who have inspired me over the last couple years!)

It's truly a miracle. Entering our strange world of enclosed spaces and restrictive equipment can play against a mustang's instincts. In a feral horse's eyes, what we might call "brave and obedient" is what they would consider dangerous and oblivious.

Some mustangs accept the strangeness of domestication surprisingly well. Others take a lot longer. And we shouldn't blame them. Domestication requires a lot of normalizing the unnatural. Everything they learned about survival is challenged and requires a lot of (proper) habituation.

What is Habituation?

Habituation is just a fancy word for "getting used to something." It's the process where repeated exposure to a stimulus makes the reaction fade away. You walk into a barn with loud fans running and after a while, you don't even notice that you're yelling over the hum. And it can work the same for horses — regardless of the approach, horses can get used to anything after a while.

Habituation can be very useful, even necessary, for horses in domestic life. If every door opening spooked your horse, or if every dog bark made them panic, no one would enjoy riding. When new or scary things are introduced well (ideally, by staying under threshold), instincts can be kept at bay. Habituation can create steady, safe, and adaptable partners.

But there can be a real danger in it too — since habituation dulls the responses. Feral horses understand this better than anyone. They find it unsettling when their domestic buddies don't respond enough (or at all) to potential dangers. This can lead to mustangs 'beating up' domestic horses when they're first integrated. They're demanding that their herd mates wake up! to teach them to be more responsible herd members.

Mustangs know the reality — don't grow dull...because it can kill you.

The Danger In Our Habituation

It's not just horses who get used to things — we do it too. Habituation can trick us into normalizing things we shouldn't.

In fact, I think humans might be the most easily habituated species. We get used to relationships that drain us, jobs that wear us down, and social cultures that later make our stomaches turn — all because it snuck up on us.

The changes happen slowly. A small compromise here, an excuse there. Before you know it, you're living a version of your life that you never would have chosen. You start telling yourself stories to make it all make sense. "They're just under pressure." "It'll get better after this show season." Or, "I'm overreacting."

I know this because that was me.

Today, I was reminded of a massive blind spot from my recent past and it took me down a rabbit hole of reflection. How did I get there? How did I not see what is so obvious now?

A few years ago, I was habituated to a life that didn't fit me. And it didn't happen overnight. It was a slow drift. I was surrounded by people and priorities that, if I'm being honest, did not align with who I really was. But I was so invested in the story I'd built — the version of "happiness" I was chasing — that I refused to see it.

I was defending people who didn't deserve my energy, allowing behavior that my old self never would have put up with. I thought I was being loyal. I thought I was compromising in the right ways. But really, I was just afraid to admit that I wasn't happy. I had habituated to dysfunction. I had normalized tension, anxiety, and the self-abandonment of proving myself to people who didn't actually care.

That's the thing about habituation — it doesn't ask for permission. It just happens.

It creeps in at work, in barns, and even among friends. You start to accept unhealthy levels of stress or poor leadership since "that's just the job." You overlook a trainer's harshness or a horse's fear because "they get results." You start to tolerate gossip or manipulation because you "understand where they're coming from."

And then one day, you realize you're embarrassed of what's happening around you — or maybe what you're a part of. Looking back, I can see how habituation got me there. It was dangerously seductive.

In some ways, my blindness was fatal; it killed a part of me. I had to start from scratch and rebuild a version of myself that I recognized again.

The Resilience of Mustangs

This is why mustangs are so fascinating to me. They don't allow themselves to become dull. They are still alert, but learn how to assess and accept things while staying aware. They don't tolerate what feels unsafe or unbalanced. Yet, they can still be so trusting and trainable.

Maybe the lesson from mustangs isn't just about how to adjust to the world around us. Maybe it's about remembering how to stay alert in our environment while still learning. How to trust our emotions while remaining open. How to pay attention when something doesn't feel right — even if everyone around us is acting like it's fine.

These days, I am aiming to be more like a mustang.

To stay sensitive to the world around me.

To respond when something feels off, instead of numbing out.

To protect my energy and my boundaries the same way a mustang protects theirs.

But learn to trust when it feels right.

Because at the end of the day, the real danger in habituation is losing touch with that inner voice that keeps us safe and connected. It's the voice that notices, questions, and speaks up. It's our instinct that says, "This isn't right."

When we silence that instinct, we risk waking up to a life we don't want.

If we can stay alert instead...and notice things before we grow dull to them... that's when life gets better. It can be really challenging — but I promise that it's not nearly as uncomfortable as waking up to a reality you're embarrassed to say you fought for.

I think that's what I respect most about mustangs. They're aware, and still willing to learn. They teach us that awareness isn't weakness, it takes courage. And sensitivity isn't something to fix, it's something to trust.

It takes incredible strength to hold space for all that and still be willing to try.