To lunge or not to lunge? Numerous riders grapple with this question, weighing the potential deleterious physical impacts with the exercise value for non-ridden horses. Whether lunging is good or bad turns out to have a nuanced answer. A more practical inquiry might not be whether to lunge, but how and when to lunge.

Not long ago, I toured a Western art museum and found myself absorbed in the works of Russell and Remington. Their paintings, alive with movement, depicted the unforgiving life of the cowboy — scenes filled with dust, tension, and the raw energy of untamed horses. These animals, used for transport and survival, stood in stark contrast to the roles horses now occupy in our world — companions in leisure, competitors in sport, and trusted partners in training. But one detail in every piece caught my attention and left me uneasy: riders with rigid hands pulling back, and horses resisting, mouths wide in distress.

Fifteen years ago, a friend asked if I’d house- and horse-sit for her at her farm in the Cowichan Valley. The property featured open turnout, natural forage, and the companionship of other horses. I accepted, unsure how it would affect my mare, Diva—who had been struggling. But the results were immediate and profound. We never left. Years later, we still live in the Cowichan Valley, and Diva continues to thrive.

Three decades ago, stepping into the world of riding meant entering a system where pressure-based methods were simply the norm. Training approaches were built around negative reinforcement, and there was far less awareness of how horses think, learn, and respond. At the time, efficiency and compliance were often valued above understanding. Looking back, unlearning those habits — ones that had been repeated and reinforced for years without question — has been one of the most challenging aspects of my development as a rider.