At fourteen, I spent most weekends and every spare moment at the local riding school, working in exchange for lessons. It was a traditional place—structured, no-nonsense, where horses were tools for teaching rather than individuals with choices, emotions, and histories.
Most of the horses went through the motions, resigned to their jobs. But one horse made no attempt to hide his resentment.
His name was Dzwon—Polish for "The Big Bell"—though his reputation had nothing to do with ringing loudly and everything to do with making it painfully clear that he despised his work.
A grey Polish Warmblood cross, 15.2hh and built like an athlete, Dzwon was the ultimate jack-of-all-trades: riding school mount, club competition horse, carriage horse. He could do it all—but only because he had to. He had learned that resistance was futile, but he never stopped trying. He bit, he kicked, he charged. His disdain for people was absolute, and everyone knew to handle him with caution.
I first met Dzwon in the worst way possible.
It was my turn to take him from his rider at the end of a lesson. I walked toward him, reaching for the reins like I had done a hundred times before with other horses. But Dzwon wasn’t like other horses. He ripped the reins from the rider’s hands, lunged at me, and knocked me flat onto the arena floor. Before I could react, he bit down hard on my arm and lashed out double barrel style. It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t a misunderstanding. He meant it.
I wasn’t impressed. I was terrified.
From that day on, I avoided him as much as I could. Feeding him became an exercise in strategy—I had to be fast, because if I lingered even a second too long, he would charge the door, ears pinned, teeth bared. Everything I did with him—grooming, tacking up, even just walking past his stable—I did with fear.
Then, like something out of a cliche storybook, everything changed.
Dzwon had a second job pulling wedding carriages like this one, alongside his driving partner—a gentle grey mare whose personality couldn’t have been more different from his if you tried. One evening, as they were returning to the stables from a ceremony, a car crashed into their carriage. The mare somehow managed to free herself from the wreckage but ran onto a nearby road, where she was hit again and killed. Dzwon was left standing in the wreckage, injured, alone, and frozen in fear.
By the time help arrived, it was late at night. The stable owner and handlers tried to load him into a trailer, but he wouldn’t budge. He was panicked, refusing to step inside. Nothing worked. He was stuck there, in the dark, in the aftermath of something he couldn’t understand.
And so, a decision was made: Dzwon's tack and another horse was brought for company, and we would ride them both home.
The yard manager rode one, and I was tasked with riding Dzwon.
I had no idea what to expect. Would he let me stay on his back? Would he explode in fear or frustration? But as I got on him, he just stood there. And when I asked him to walk forward, he walked. Slowly, hesitantly, but he walked.
The city streets stretched before us, quiet and empty. The journey was long, the night endless. I spoke to him the whole way, murmuring nonsense—telling him he was going to be okay, that we were heading home, that if he just kept going, he’d be back in his stable with his supper soon. We took breaks. I jumped off now and then to walk beside him, letting him know he wasn’t alone.
I don’t remember how many hours it took. But I do remember how different everything felt by the time we reached the stables.
Something had shifted between us.
From that night on, he never tried to bite me. Never charged me in the stable. His ears still pinned sometimes, his nostrils still wrinkled in displeasure, but it no longer felt like a threat. And strangely, I no longer felt afraid.
At the time, I thought we had simply bonded because of that night. I believed I had earned his trust by bringing him home. But looking back, I see it differently.
It wasn’t about a single act of kindness or bravery—it was about connection.
That night, for the first time, I wasn’t handling him in a lesson environment. I wasn’t commanding him. I wasn’t another person trying to control him. I was simply there, walking together or walking beside him, offering support instead of expectation. And that changed everything.
For years, I thought our bond was just something that happened. Now, I understand it for what it was: the result of meeting a horse where he was, not where I wanted him to be.
It took me years of working with horses to fully grasp what Dzwon taught me that night.
Connection has to come first. Before training. Before competing. Before riding. A horse that is seen, heard, and understood is a horse that is willing to learn. A horse that is merely managed, controlled, and corrected will always resist. Externally or internally.
That night, I stopped being someone who worked with Dzwon. I became someone who walked with him.
And that made all the difference.
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