When Everything Goes Wrong: What Chaos Taught Me About Presence

The Journey That Changed My Understanding

Yesterday was supposed to be simple. A 2-hour train journey home after a full day treating horses in Ulverston. Pack up. Travel. Rest.

It became 6 hours of chaos.

Wrong direction. Delayed trains. Midnight arrival. At one point, I spent an hour traveling back to where I'd started.

But one moment in all that madness stopped me cold.

I was on yet another train, finally heading in the right direction. Five-minute stop in Carnforth. I checked my phone. My connection was delayed.

I found the conductor. Explained the situation.

"I'm not allowed to hold the train for you," he said. Then he paused. "But I will if you run for it. I don't want you left here for an hour alone. It's not safe."

My heart filled up. I wanted to hug him.

The doors opened. I sprinted across the platform.

The train pulled away as I reached it.

My heart sank.

Running back to the original train, the conductor shook his head. "I'm sorry. We'll find you a different train to get home."

He couldn't save me from the delay. But he tried. He broke the rules. He cared.

That moment of human connection in the middle of mechanical chaos stayed with me long after I finally reached home at midnight.

The 48 Hours I Couldn't Control

But let me back up.

Twelve hours before that conductor moment, I was on a different train. This one heading to the airport with my entire life packed in 2 suitcases. Moving countries. Starting over.

About an hour from the airport, the train shuddered. It felt like stones hitting both sides. Five minutes later, we stopped completely.

We sat there for 2 hours.

I watched people's reactions. Not knowing what had happened. Some pacing. Some angry. Some resigned. Different ways of holding uncertainty.

About an hour in, they told us. Someone had taken their life by jumping in front of the train.

The atmosphere shifted. Anger dissolved into something quieter. Heavier.

I sat there with my 2 suitcases and did breathwork. Calming my nervous system. Choosing how to hold what I couldn't control.

What I Realized in the Chaos

Here's what those 48 hours taught me.

I couldn't control the trains. Couldn't control the delays. Couldn't control someone's decision to end their life on the tracks. Couldn't control the connection I'd miss or the hours I'd lose.

But I could control my response.

Not in a spiritual bypass, "everything happens for a reason" way. I'm not interested in that kind of detachment.

I mean something more grounded. More real.

When I stopped trying to control what I couldn't control, I became present enough to be vulnerable with that conductor. My vulnerability invited him to show up as human, not just someone following rules.

Detaching from the outcome didn't mean I didn't care about getting home. It meant I stopped making myself tense over things I couldn't change.

And that shift in me created space for real human connection.

The Pattern I Keep Seeing

This isn't new. I've seen this pattern for years.

As a horse chiropractor, I spent decades treating horses and watching rider-horse relationships. The same dynamic plays out every single day in stables across the world.

The rider trying to control the outcome. The perfect transition. The calm hack. The flawless training session.

They get emotional. Tense. Frustrated when it doesn't happen the way they planned.

The horse feels that tension. Of course they do. They're prey animals whose survival depends on reading energy.

So the horse braces. Gets reactive. Shuts down. "Develops problems."

But here's what I've learned: The horse isn't the problem.

The horse is the mirror.

What Happens When You Let Go

The rider who detaches from the outcome shows up differently.

Not checked out. Not disconnected. Not spiritually bypassing their horse's actual needs.

But present. Grounded. Aware of what's actually happening instead of attached to what should be happening.

The horse gets curious about this.

They soften. Their neck drops. Eyes change. Breathing deepens. The whole dynamic shifts.

Why?

Because control creates tension. And tension creates resistance.

Presence creates softness. And softness invites connection.

Your horse feels your letting go the same way that conductor felt my vulnerability. It creates space for something real to happen instead of two beings locked in a power struggle.

The Difference Between Control and Presence

Let me be clear about what I mean.

Control says: "This ride must go a certain way or I've failed."

Presence says: "I'm here with what's actually happening right now."

Control makes decisions from emotion and attachment.

Presence makes decisions from awareness and reality.

Control fights against what is.

Presence works with what is.

That doesn't mean you don't have goals. I had a goal to get home. I had a goal to catch my flight.

But I wasn't attached to controlling the trains, the delays, the chaos. I was present with the reality of what was happening and making decisions from that place.

The same applies to riding.

You can have goals for your horse without trying to control every moment of every ride. You can work toward improvement without making yourself tense over what isn't happening yet.

When you're present instead of controlling, you can actually feel what your horse needs. You can respond to reality instead of fighting it.

What Your Horse Has Been Trying to Tell You

Here's what I've learned after 30 years with horses:

Your horse has been trying to tell you this all along.

Every time they brace when you're tense. Every time they soften when you breathe. Every time they resist when you're forcing and relax when you're flowing.

They're not being difficult. They're being honest.

They're showing you exactly what they feel from you. The tension you're carrying. The control you're gripping. The attachment to outcome that makes you rigid.

And they're also showing you what becomes possible when you let go.

When you stop trying to force the perfect ride and start being present with the ride you're actually having.

When you surrender to what is instead of fighting for what should be.

When you choose your response instead of reacting to circumstances.

The Practice of Staying Present

I'm not saying this is easy.

Sitting on that train at midnight after 6 hours of chaos, exhausted, I had to actively choose to do breathwork. To calm my nervous system. To stay present.

It would have been easier to spiral into frustration. To make myself more tense. To blame the trains, the system, the universe.

But that wouldn't have changed anything except my internal experience.

And my internal experience is the only thing I actually control.

Same with your horse.

You can't control whether they spook at that plastic bag. You can't control their energy levels that day. You can't control their past experiences or current mood.

But you can control your response to all of it.

You can choose to breathe. To stay grounded. To be present with what's actually happening instead of attached to what you wanted to happen.

That's the practice. Not perfection. Just presence.

What Changes When You Choose Presence

That conductor didn't save me from the delay. I still got home at midnight. I still spent 6 hours on a 2-hour journey.

But his willingness to try, his humanity in the chaos, his breaking of rules because he cared—that changed how I held the entire experience.

I didn't arrive home angry. I arrived grateful. Tired, yes. But grateful.

Your presence does the same thing for your horse.

It doesn't guarantee perfect rides. Doesn't eliminate all challenges. Doesn't magically solve every training issue.

But it changes everything about how both of you experience the journey.

It transforms tension into softness. Resistance into curiosity. Struggle into connection.

Because your horse isn't waiting for you to be perfect. They're waiting for you to be present.

The Invitation

I spent 48 hours learning what I teach every day.

That control is an illusion. That presence is a choice. That detaching from outcome doesn't mean not caring—it means caring enough to show up grounded and real.

Your horse already knows this. They've been living it. Showing it. Teaching it.

The question is whether you're ready to listen.

To stop trying to control them into the horse you want and start connecting with the horse they are.

To surrender the perfect ride you're attached to and be present with the actual ride you're having.

To choose your response instead of reacting to circumstances.

When you do, everything softens.

The experience becomes more enjoyable. For both of you.

Not because everything goes right. But because you're no longer fighting what is.

That's what The Horse Listener teaches. Not more techniques to apply to your horse. But how to show up present, grounded, and soft. So your horse can be curious instead of defensive.

Six weeks to understand what they've been trying to tell you all along.

Your horse has been waiting.

Not for perfection.

For presence.

Nika Vorster is an equine chiropractor with 30 years of experience working with horses and riders. After representing Great Britain as an equestrian, she now helps riders develop the kind of presence and connection that transforms both horse and rider.