What a stomach ulcer taught me about equine welfare:

Something happened today that shook me to my core and changed the way I look at horses—forever.

Have you ever had stomach pain so bad it left you breathless? Maybe you’ve felt the kind that doubles you over, makes you break out in a cold sweat, and leaves you whispering through clenched teeth, “Help me”?

Today, I witnessed someone—an adult, strong and stoic—crumble under that kind of pain. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t dramatic. She quietly repeated, “Help me… help me…” while clutching her abdomen, unable to stand up straight. She stayed hunched over, pressing her fist into her stomach, trying to brace against wave after wave of sharp, stabbing pain. Until she couldnt be quiet anymore and began heaving, groaning In pain as waves hit here. She’d just eaten a small meal, and it made things worse. Every bite seemed to punish her.

She was experiencing her first stomach ulcer.

Two full days she endured this before seeking care—two days of agony that she tried to mask, to tolerate, to push through. Watching it unfold in real time was a harsh reminder of just how invisible intense suffering can be.

And here’s where the lesson hit me.

HORSES GET ULCERS TOO. A LOT OF THEM. Studies estimate that 60-90% of performance horses have gastric ulcers. But they can’t tell us they hurt. They can’t say, “Help me.”

They can’t clutch their sides or cry out. They just change. They move differently. They pin their ears. They act “cinchy” or “girthy.” They resist. They slow down. They speed up. They go hollow. They stop eating. They bite. They shut down.

And so often, we label those behaviors as “disrespect,” “bad attitude,” “training issues,” or even “laziness.”

But after what I saw today—how someone in intense pain still tried to stay calm, tried not to inconvenience anyone, tried to go on with their day—I realized that we ask our horses to do the same. And they do. Quietly.

Not because they’re fine. But because they’re prey animals. They’re not wired to show weakness.

We often think discomfort has to look dramatic to be real. But most pain doesn’t look like a scream. It looks like subtle changes. A loss of sparkle. A shift in behavior. A horse who used to love attention now turns away. A once-consistent performer starts missing marks.

This experience reminded me how much we still have to learn about what horses endure in silence—and how much they forgive us for not noticing.

If you’ve ever dismissed a horse’s behavioral change, I challenge you to look again. To ask: WHAT IF THEY’RE NOT BEING DIFFICULT? WHAT IF THEY’RE HURTING?

Because now I’ve seen what pain can look like when it’s hidden. And I can’t unsee it.