Let’s speak plainly: More horses have been physically and mentally ruined through the obsession with getting them off the forehand than through being ridden, gently and thoughtfully, in their natural posture.
The myth of the evenly balanced horse
A horse, left to its own devices, naturally carries approximately 60–70% of its weight on the forehand. This is not pathology—it’s biology. When we sit on them, this front-loading increases. Of course it does. We add weight right behind the withers. So, yes, a horse will often “fall onto the forehand” under a rider. But that is not an emergency. It is the baseline. It is the starting point—not something to be panicked about or “fixed” at all costs.
True collection, the kind rooted in classical principles, does eventually ask a horse to shift more weight to the hindquarters. But collection is a goal—an art. Not a requirement for basic riding. Not something to force onto a young, green, or otherwise unprepared horse.
When lightness becomes violence
Dressage, at its best, is a tool of harmony and refinement. At its worst, it becomes an instrument of cruelty dressed in expensive tack. Riders who barely grasp classical principles begin to pull their horses into frames. They leverage bits and spurs to “lighten” the forehand—without understanding what collection really is or how it’s developed.
They want the result—the look—without the years of preparation, the strengthening, the relationship. The result? Horses braced in their backs, jammed in the poll, their bodies twisted into manufactured outlines, their spirits dulled.
And then come the vets. The bodyworkers. The remedial farriers. The gadgets and therapies. The horses can’t be ridden unless “managed.” The horse is blamed. Never the training.
If you need a team of specialists to keep your horse sound while you keep training, something is wrong. If your horse is “fine” only when held together by force or rehab, you’re not practicing dressage. You’re fighting biology—and the horse is paying the price.
Natural balance is not pathological
Somewhere along the way, the horse’s natural posture was rebranded as a problem. A disease state. “On the forehand” became synonymous with broken, lazy, incorrect. And so riders went to war with nature, turning loose, balanced horses into rigid caricatures of what they think dressage should look like.
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But a horse in original balance—moving freely, relaxed, without resistance—is not broken. It is whole. It is the foundation from which we might, with care and time, build collection.
The disturbing irony is this: many of the horses seen as “correct” in competition today are closer to pathological than natural. Their necks are upside-down. Their hind legs trail out. Their bodies are braced. And yet they score. Because judges are trained to see the outline, not the horse.
Where rest lives
Let’s talk about rest. Every athlete, human or horse, needs a place to return to—a place of recovery, of comfort. For horses, that place is their original balance. The forehand. That is where they rest. It is not “lazy.” It is necessary.
To ask a horse to stay in a collected frame indefinitely is like asking a human to hold a 20 kg feed sack in a curl for an hour. It’s cruel. You can lift it. You can hold it briefly. Then you must rest.
Collection is a repetition, not a permanent state. You gather. You release. You gather again. You let go. This is how we build strength. This is how we avoid burnout. But so many horses are never allowed to let go. They are trapped in collection—false or real—and they suffer for it.
Classical vs. contemporary dressage
In true classical schools, like the Spanish Riding School in Vienna or the Escola Portuguesa de Arte Equestre in Lisbon, horses work in short sessions. Even their most advanced horses performing airs above ground might only work for 10–15 minutes at a time. Collection is approached with reverence. It is earned.
In contrast, today’s riders train for frame, not function. For shape, not strength. For appearance, not ability. They drive horses into outlines. They use opposing aids—inside leg to outside hand—not to support learning but to shortcut it. They use tack to achieve in 30 days what used to take three years.
But classical development cannot be hacked. It cannot be rushed. It takes seasons. It takes failure. It takes patience. That is what made it art.
War horses and modern shortcuts
Much of our modern training culture still echoes military needs. Systems designed to prepare horses for war in 30–90 days are now used to produce “show-ready” horses. But here’s the truth no one wants to remember: war horses weren’t expected to survive. Only 1% of the 40 million horses used in World War I came back. One percent.
So yes, the systems worked—to get a horse fit enough to ride into hell. But not to live. Not to stay sound. Not to thrive. And yet, we mimic them still.
What should we really do?
Let the horse move. Let it walk under you as it would to water. If your horse can’t walk under saddle like it does in the field, it’s not ready for collection. Build relationship first. Build rhythm. Build balance—not by pulling weight off the forehand, but by showing the horse how to use its body without force.
“If your horse can’t move under saddle like they move to the water trough, they’re not ready for collection.”
Let collection be a temporary lift, not a prison. Reward the try. Let them rest.
Because here’s the truth: If you ride a horse gently in its original balance, without pulling, without pushing, without warping its frame—you are doing more good for its body than most of what passes for “training” today.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s time we started measuring our horsemanship not by how collected our horses look—but by how often they can rest. By how sound they stay. By how willing they are to walk up to us tomorrow and say: “Let’s try again.”
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