When I first moved to New Jersey, the local paper ran a front-page story about my work in animal communication. I had been doing this work for four years. Not long after the article came out, a woman named Linda called me.
“I have a horse,” she said carefully, as though even saying the word might cause trouble. “Would you come see him?”
Now here’s the part I did not tell Linda:
I had never been near a horse in my life.
Cats? Yes. Dogs? Absolutely. Birds, rabbits, the occasional cranky parrot? Fine. But horses? They always looked to me like creatures designed by committee. A very large committee.
Still, I was excited.
When I arrived, Linda led me toward the barn. The smell of hay and leather filled the air, and somewhere nearby something enormous snorted with enough force to rearrange my mind.
Then she brought him out.
Amir.
He was magnificent. Huge, muscular, alert—and standing close enough to me that I suddenly became very aware of how tiny and breakable humans actually are.
Then Linda did something unexpected.
She handed me the rope.
“Walk him out to the grounds,” she said, pointing the way. “I’m going to get the journalist who’ll be joining us.”
Before I could invent a sudden illness, she disappeared.
So there I was. Alone. With a horse approximately the size of a recreational vehicle.
Inside, my mind was screaming:
You’ve never done this before!
But outwardly, I decided to try something else.
I pretended Amir was a cute puppy.
That’s it. That was my grand spiritual strategy.
I spoke to him the same way I’d speak to an eager little dog.
“Well hello there, sweetheart. Aren’t you handsome? Yes, you are.”
And something remarkable happened.
The fear changed.
Not disappeared—changed.
Instead of focusing on how powerful he was, I focused on connection. Curiosity replaced panic. Warmth replaced tension. My body relaxed. Amir relaxed too.
By the time we reached the grounds, we were getting along beautifully.
During the communication, what Amir showed me broke my heart.
I saw severe abuse from before Linda had rescued him. Fear around men. Fear of being forced. Fear of being taken places without understanding why. He showed me confusion and dread connected to travel and unfamiliar locations.
He also showed me something surprisingly practical.
I asked him mentally:
“If Linda showed you pictures in her mind of where you’re going before you travel, would that help?”
The answer came immediately.
Yes.
Amir allowed me to pet him, massage him, and sit quietly with him. Beneath all that intimidating size was simply a frightened being trying to feel safe again.
Afterward, Linda asked me to wait in the kitchen while she returned Amir to the barn. I sat there with a cup of tea while she kept repeating the same sentence.
“That was amazing. That was amazing.”
Finally, I laughed and asked, “What exactly was amazing?”
She stared at me.
“I only got him a month ago,” she said. “He’s been terrifying. He kicks, bites, lunges, and I’ve honestly been afraid of him.”
Then she paused.
“But with you… he was like a baby.”
And there it was.
Not magic.
Not dominance.
Not fearlessness.
Transformation.
I hadn’t eliminated fear. I had translated it into something I could hold differently. Something softer. Something manageable.
Sometimes that’s all courage really is.
Not becoming fearless.
Just finding a gentler story to stand in.
Maybe for me, that day, fear simply put on a puppy costume.
We often think fear has to be defeated head-on. But many times, fear responds better when it’s redirected.
Children do this naturally. They sing in the dark. They name storms. They talk to nervous pets in silly voices.
Humor, imagination, compassion, and reframing can chemically and emotionally shift what fear is doing inside us. We move from survival mode into relationship mode.
And once connection enters the room, fear loosens its grip.
Questions for You
- Have you ever transformed fear by changing the way you looked at it?
- Did humor ever help you through a frightening situation?
- Have you noticed animals responding differently when you changed emotionally first?
- What “puppy costume” have you unconsciously used to get through something difficult?
- Is courage always loud—or can it sometimes sound like a gentle voice saying, “Easy now… good boy”?
A gentle reminder before we close: animals are communicating with us far more often than most people realize. Sometimes through images, feelings, behavior, silence, or simply presence. The real journey is learning how to listen with more than our ears.
Whether you are just becoming curious about animal communication, have quietly practiced it for years, or simply want a deeper connection with the animals in your life, my book Nature Speaks is filled with true stories, practical ideas, and techniques that can help you explore that path in your own way.
After all, every meaningful conversation has to begin somewhere… even if it starts with talking to a frightened horse as though he were a cute puppy.
Namaste,
Nancy
