Pecan Creek Ranch

Regulation Thursday

Our nervous systems are constantly gathering information from our bodies and our environment. One of the signals they pay attention to is speed. How quickly we move can influence whether the nervous system interprets a situation as requiring mobilization, caution, or rest.

Fast movement is often associated with action. Running, rushing, multitasking, and constantly moving from one task to another can increase physiological arousal. Heart rate rises, breathing often becomes more shallow, and the nervous system shifts resources toward performance and responding to demands.

This isn’t inherently bad. We need the ability to mobilize energy to meet challenges, solve problems, and pursue goals. However, when a fast pace becomes our default state, the nervous system may spend more time in a state of activation and less time in restoration.

Slower, intentional movement often provides the nervous system with different information. Walking at a comfortable pace, moving mindfully, or engaging in gentle activities can create opportunities for deeper breathing, greater awareness of the environment, and increased sensory integration.

For many people, slowing down can support regulation because it allows the brain and body to process information more fully rather than constantly preparing for the next demand.

Interestingly, regulation is not simply about moving slowly. A pace that is too slow for our current state can sometimes feel uncomfortable or even agitating. Likewise, a pace that is too fast can overwhelm our capacity to process what is happening around us.

Equine Assisted Psychotherapy Wednesday

The client walks out of the barn and into the pasture with the team. As they walk, they catch up on how the client has been doing. The client stops walking and scans the pasture. They spot their horse nearly thirty acres away. The client calls out. The gelding lifts his head and turns toward the sound, watching. Suddenly he breaks into a trot, then a gallop, racing toward the client, covering the distance quickly. But as the gelding passes through the gate into the larger pasture where the client is standing, the client’s body tightens. The gelding slows, nostrils flaring and ears forward. The client exclaims that they are excited to see him, but their body tells another story, leaning backward, away from the horse’s approach. The gelding slows again and then stops a few acres away, head raised, quietly studying the client.

Client: “Why did he stop?”

Team member shrugs. “I don’t know.”

The horse stands still, head raised, ears forward, nostrils flaring.

Team member: “Did anything change inside you as he was coming toward you?”

Client: “He was racing!”

Team member: “Yes, he was. What was that like for you?”

Client: “I really want to see him. It was also a little scary.”

Team member: “I can imagine. It sounds like there may besome conflict inside you. You want him to come, and maybe you also want him to come more slowly.”

The client smiles. “Slower would be nice.”

The gelding takes a tentative step toward the client. The client laughs, body more relaxed now. The gelding moves forward again. The client’s energy rises, and the gelding quickens his pace. The client steps back. Once again, the gelding stops and waits.

Client: “I know what he’s doing.”

Team member: “Yeah? What’s he doing?”

Client: “He’s listening to me!”

Educational Monday

We can only give what we have been given.

I learned this lesson the hard way as a young clinician providing in-home services to new mothers living with significant mental health challenges. At first, I believed that their mental illnesses were the primary obstacle they faced as parents. Over time, I realized there was often something deeper beneath the surface.

Many of these mothers had never experienced true attunement. They had never been deeply seen, understood, comforted, and cared for by another person. The care they received growing up was often provided from a place of obligation, duty, or survival rather than genuine connection. As a result, many had never learned what attunement felt like.

Because of this, they often struggled to attune to their own babies. They could not hear the subtle differences in their babies' cries. They assumed every cry meant hunger and were confused when feeding did not soothe their child. They did not realize that some cries were not about food at all—they were about connection, comfort, or a need to feel safe.

When a baby pushed the bottle away, many parents became overwhelmed with frustration and confusion. Sometimes feeding turned into a power struggle. I remember feeling puzzled by this disconnect. How could they not hear the differences in the cries? How could they miss what seemed so obvious to me?

Then a colleague shared a simple insight that changed the way I viewed these families: “You cannot give what you have not been given." If no one had ever attuned to them, how could they know how to attune to their babies?

That realization transformed my work. My role was not to correct, or simply instruct. My role was to offer what many of them had never received. To listen deeply. To see them. To respond with patience, care, and compassion. To create a relationship where they could experience attunement for themselves. Only then could they begin to offer those same gifts to their children.

Sometimes the most powerful way to help someone change is not to teach them what to do. It is to give them the experience of what they have never had.