When Your Horse Steps on His Own Tail (And Other Leadership Disasters)

The Murderous Tarp

Smooch is eighteen hundred pounds of horse, muscle, and instinct wrapped in a body that can out-decide me in less than a second. And he has.

He's a better citizen these days at 8 years old. Better, but not boring.

He's grown quirky, the kind of horse who can turn it on in the show ring but lose his mind over something ordinary. Most recently, a cow. A cow minding its own business, chewing grass, living its cow life.

Mr. I-Weigh-a-Ton had a full-scale meltdown. Dancing. Jumping forward for a look, then backing up like the cow was armed. He even stepped on his own tail and scared himself. Yes, buddy. We all saw it.

Riding that kind of unreliable powder keg is not fun. Working for one isn't either.

You're risk-managing more than partnering.

We've gone back to basics, the leadership equivalent of sending someone to a workshop on "active listening." Like they don't know. They know. They just aren't doing.

With Smooch, we've been doing desensitizing work. Tarps blowing. Scarves tied everywhere until he looks like Stevie Nicks stepping on stage. Jingle bells. Random phone apps playing cow sounds, gunshots, turkey calls. My horse thinks he's in a one-man parade and I'm the idiot grand marshal.

There's no goal to never be scared. There are horses like that. Shut down, checked out, numb to anything. That's not a partner. That's a furry forklift.

Workplaces are full of the same. People who "accept" everything, nod through anything, keep their heads down. Easy to lead, right? Except there's nothing alive left in them. No curiosity. No appetite for challenge. No spark for adventure.

In our world, the trust and the adventure have to go both ways.

And then there's the blue tarp. Always the damn tarp.

It flaps and cracks in the wind. Shifty. Sliding down his sides or snapping over his rear. Loud. Unpredictable. Predator-shaped in his brain. His body tells the story: ears locked, nostrils wide, a full-body coil ready to explode.

And me? Holding the lead rope, wondering how I got cast as the designated adult in a scene where Home Depot aisle seven had turned into a serial killer.

What Fear Wants

Fear creates loads of options for horses and humans alike. Most of them suck.

• Bolt: Panic decisions at speed, trampling everyone in range. We've all been in those meetings.

• Buck: Thrash and throw tantrums. Rude emails, sharp words, make it everyone else's problem. The classic "reply all" meltdown.

• Lock up: Freeze. Do nothing. Pretend it isn't happening. La la la la. Conference room deer-in-headlights.

• Check out: Suffer in silence while everything collapses. Because endurance totally counts as strategy, right?

None of these work when you're the human in the wrong place. With horses. With leaders. With cultures full of rodeo moments.

You see it every day. People plastering on game faces while being whiplashed from horizon-facing strategy back into the micromanagement of second grade. Cultures shrinking into performative shadows of their values posters, all pointing to the fancy break room so the Best Places to Work plaque looks good in the hallway.

Every day I talk to good leaders who are being worn flat by stuffing their perceptions, their reactions, their directions deep into their bellies. Then they walk into meetings of powder kegs, waiting for the Perfectionist-in-Residence to nod sagely and pronounce whatever tepid version can be tolerated, acceptable.

They call it strategy. Please. Recently, a few Mad Men types termed it "Hardcore Culture."

It isn't strategy. It's command and control. The oldest trick in the world for handling fear: bully other people so they don't notice your insecurity.

Return-to-office whiplash. Executives sighing in relief because the last few years are "over" and now they can get back to the "real work."

It isn't leadership. It's rodeo fuel.

And they can't ride.

The Calm Agreement

When we last left our hero, his head was high, his legs locked, and he was convinced I was the evil one. His pasture mate wasn't helping, standing off to the side with a look that said, Bro... what did you do?

Facing up is a calm agreement.

You can be afraid.You can wonder if I know what I'm doing. Trust me, I wonder the same about you.You can even throw me a full-body W...T...F?

All of that is fair. But you still have to face it.

We don't drive forward just to prove we can. That only loads a bomb of resistance under us. Entire teams running on fear and adrenaline just waiting for that one splinter of conflict to blow everything apart.

We don't run away either, no matter how good that escape hatch looks. Learned helplessness is real. Comfort turns into confusion, then complacency, and pretty soon everyone's asking, Hey, why don't we do that anymore? By then, innovation is already dead and buried.

Facing up looks like this:

"The log is going to kill you? Fine. Let's check again."
"The deer in the road is an assassin? Alright, one more circle."
"The blue tarp is a prehistoric pterodactyl? Sure. Let's go see."

We walk. Quiet circles. Each time he burns off energy, each time I redirect him back to the thing. I'm taking his attention from the poor decision he's trying to make and asking him to rely on me.

Then we face it again.

He edges closer. Lifts one leg like he's considering. Stops and looks back at me.

Fair enough. "Good work," I tell him.

Another small circle. I stay loose. Calm. The apex predator is breathing steadily, which means the giant prey animal can too. I'm not faking relaxation, and I'm not pushing urgency.

My patience here means I may never argue about a log again. Or a boulder. Or a branch. He'll extend this learning to everything. This investment is worth it.

Face it again. Stop. Look. Breathe. This time one leg goes over. Then two. Now he's standing across the obstacle.

I relax my body, breathe out. I'm good with either direction.I open my hands, no pressure on his face. "It's your move."My legs just touch his sides, a firm hug. "I believe you can go forward. What do you think?"

He sidesteps. Once. Twice. Then, with a dramatic leap, we're over it. Scratches. A "good boy." Never a "Finally!" Because that would be petty, and horses remember petty.

That's the calm agreement. I don't deny his fear. I don't drown in it either. He doesn't get to make the call from panic. I don't get to shove him like fear is weakness.

Then we turn around and face it again. Headed home, he steps over like it's nothing. Give it a day or two, and we'll jog toward it, wind in our faces, eyes forward. And jump.

We stay present. Together.

Courage as Conversation

This is what leaders get wrong. We sell brave like it's Navy SEAL training or package it as zen book-club courage. Quote some bestsellers. Smile thinly. Remind everyone to be vulnerable. Never break a sweat.

You've seen it. The tight face. The marionette posture. The voice that insists, "I'm fine, it's good, just being courageous," while everything about them screams otherwise.

That isn't courage. That's performative fearlessness. And it's contagious as hell.

Courage is a conversation. Trust and fear sitting at the same table. Two beings agreeing not to bolt, not to buck, not to check out, not to freeze. To stay present. To stay curious. To step anyway.

That's what I asked of Smooch. That's what he asked of me. And that's what your team, your partners, your culture are asking of you.

Face up.

The Deal

The tarp didn't stop flapping. It didn't turn friendly. It stayed noisy, unpredictable, predator-shaped in his brain.

But he stepped forward.

Because I stayed calm. Because he trusted I wouldn't ignore his fear or coddle it. Because we faced up, together.

That's the deal real leaders keep. Not to erase fear. Not to deny it. To stand steady long enough that others can see their own fear, stay curious, and move anyway.

Face up. Or start the rodeo you can't ride.

Smooch will wear the tarp now. He'll step over logs, play on obstacles, cross water. Not because his genetics tell him these are smart ideas. It's completely counter-intuitive for him.

He does it because of the agreement. Because he trusts me not to steer him wrong. And if I do? He trusts me that we'll get out.

The tarp is still flapping. The fear is still real. Courage isn't the absence of fear. It's the agreement to stay present with it, witness it together, and step anyway.

That's how trust gets built. That's how teams move. That's how leaders prove they're worth following.

That's the deal.