“Beyond Independent Aids: Riding as a Whole Human”
The gorgeous Ferbie. Horse on loan from Virginia and Photo Credit Vivienne
I’ve been thinking, some might even say, overthinking, and they might be right. However, if you know me, you know I thrive on details.
The word independent generally means free from control, influence, or support by others.
Not controlled by others in matters of opinion, conduct, or action
Not relying on or requiring the aid of others; self-sufficient
Not connected with or affiliated to a larger body or group
In the context of horse riding, the term independent is often used to describe the rider’s ability to use each part of their body—such as seat, hands, and legs. With control, without one action unintentionally influencing another.
I’ve been toying with this definition; it could assume that body parts can or should function in isolation, which doesn’t align with how we humans are designed to move. True coordination involves the entire body working together with awareness, not in disconnected parts.
Beyond Independent Aids: Riding as a Whole Human
The way we use our body when we ride isn’t just mechanical. It’s deeply human, and deeply felt.
We’re often told as riders that we need “independent aids”—that our seat, legs, and hands should work separately, each with its own job, not interfering with the others. On paper, that makes sense. But in practice, it can feel like we’re being asked to divide ourselves into parts, like we’re meant to be operating individual levers instead of showing up as whole, living people.
In riding, “independent” usually means using one part of your body without unintentionally affecting the others. It’s a tidy idea. But our nervous system doesn’t really work like that. We’re not wired to isolate. We’re designed to coordinate.
Everything we do in the saddle is influenced by our thoughts, emotions, and what we feel beneath us. When we try too hard to separate our aids, we risk disconnecting from ourselves—and from our horse. That can lead to tension, or a kind of static in the conversation we’re trying to have.
Instead of chasing perfect separation, maybe it’s more useful to think about clarity. Not clarity from isolating each aid—but from riding with awareness. From knowing what you’re asking, why you’re asking it, and feeling how your whole body is part of that communication.
Your leg doesn’t just “go on.” It goes on because of what your seat is sensing, what your hands are offering, and what your mind is intending. Good riding doesn’t come from isolation—it comes from integration.
Riding is a conversation, not a set of commands. And the clearer and more connected we are—as whole humans—the more meaningful that conversation becomes.
So yes, maybe I do overthink. But sometimes, that’s where the good stuff lives.
I’ll keep thinking about it. Maybe you will too.